Winter's Kings
by TheGreatStag
Summary: Theon the Hungry Wolf, Slayer of Andals and Ironborn. Protector of the North and Conqueror of Andalos and the Isles of the Bite. He will create a legacy that will last millennia with Iron and Blood. His descendants will make the world tremble. Join him on his journey. Major A. Comments and criticisms welcome.
1. Theon I

Theon I

He looked through the window of the Dreadfort, surveying all he could see and was content in the knowledge that soon it would be his. At least most of it would be. He sauntered lazily out of his featherbed as a lad of six and ten namedays was wont to do so.

As he gave a quick glance around the bedchambers that he occupied something strange caught his eye; a gaunt brown haired man stared at him with dull steel-grey eyes.

His long hair was a shade of dark brown reminiscent of fertile soil. He remembered the way some of the sons of father's bannermen would mock him relentlessly about his looks or his figure. As Theon looked at himself, he supposed that they had a certain point.

He thought to himself of when his mother would call him 'slender' he thought it more truthful to call it 'skinny'.

He believed, that he was truly different to most Northern men in where the muscles were the main feature to which everything else played second fiddle. He saw himself as a thinking man, and if he was forced to fall back on violence he could use his speed to outmaneuver his opponents before slipping a blade in where their armor couldn't defend, all the while using his agility so get out the way from their attacks.

He lifted up some strands that were starting to get in the way of his sight and simply moved them behind an ear. He felt his chin and gave a little smirk as he felt sharp pricks that signified the beginning of a good northern beard.

A soft whine emanated throughout the room, making Theon's small smirk shift into something similar to something that one could mistake for a smile.

"Here boy," At the words, a gray wolf rose on the side of his bed and walked to his master. Theon turned slowly to greet the creature and crouched. He laughed as the beast licked his face and hands even as he scratched the fur of his oldest friend.

"Ahh,- Stop 'silver,- Haha- Come'on now stop it-" It took a while but the direwolf pup eventually stopped. Theon took a good look at his partner; the beast had a silky gray fur and his eyes were an almost magical molten gold that showed off the intelligence of the beast. He had been given the beast as a gift on his tenth nameday. Naming him Quicksilver; Partly for his shiny coat and partly of his incredible speed that was evident even when he was younger

The keeping of a direwolf was a Stark tradition that had been begun when the Children of the Forest had gifted such beasts to the children of Brandon the Builder as a show of friendship between the First Men of House Stark and the Children.

Theon rose from his earlier his position as he walked to his closet which held the attire he was intended to wear for the occasion. His wolf was lying on the floor, looking at him curiously wondering what strange human custom was about to occur.

Within the closet, there was a mannequin upon which lay the clothes the prince was indeed to wear. It was... different from anything than Theon had ever seen previously. Putting it simply it was ceremonial armor which was controversial in the north, due to a lack of practical usage.

Upon the person, was a white long sleeve breeches and tunic, then a light silver cuirass was tight fitting decorated with howling gray wolves, the silver gauntlets (also having more gray wolves) adorned went as far as the knuckles and forearms. On the legs, were silver greaves (with more bloody wolves) that went from the top of the ankle to the top of the knee. Upon the head, there was a band of bronze and iron that went around the skull it had another fucking gray wolf at the fore.

To be fair to the smith that designed the ornament, the crown was fairly simple and to the liking of Theon as made it clear to even the biggest town fools who the Prince of Winter was. And finally upon the shoulders was a wolf's pelt, which the standard attire for all northern nobility of the time.

As it would take a while for the prince to completely finish, he began pondering of how he got to this stage of a wedding. He thought to months earlier, to the wedding of his elder brother and what made himself and his recently married brother to march from the Rills to the Wolfswood.

Then to the Dreadfort to kill the Boltons as for burning Winterfell to the ground for the second gods-damned time. He was certain that Bran wouldn't hesitate to kill any of the flayers he found; man, woman, and child.

But instead, he had been convinced to settle some kind of peace Theon remembered how sick the thought was to him that made him spit. Making peace with those that had burned his mother and father, the bastards that had raped his people.

After witnessing the flayed innocents, their horrified faces which would stay there, forever. People who had sworn fealty to his House, to his blood. And he had failed them.

He had failed his duty.

That thought alone made it impossible to visualize any kind of peace that didn't involve the annihilation of an entire House.

Theon believed that his brother shared similar views which made it possible to create the thought that their nuncle Rickard had spun some sorcery on his king.

The entire point of rallying an army, calling your allies and beating your plowshare into a sword, was to kill Boltons. Not make some half-hearted peace with those thrice-damned flayers which would be forgotten before the turn of the century, but let it never be said that Theon would forget his duty to his brother.

He didn't care much for his uncle or the rest of the nameless bastards whom he shared a second name with bar Bran and their parents to honest. That was another difficult topic to talk about, just another of many in his life.

It was only them he could have said he loved with his full heart. Ever since finding out about their deaths he had just been meandering through life; killing and fucking. Nothing else really didn't matter.

He remembered how their uncle had talked them into making peace with the flayed man when it would have been simpler make him extinct just like the other houses that refused to kneel to the wolf. It wouldn't have been the first time House Stark had put a down a House root and stem.

Theon sneered as he thought how much of craven their uncle feared the reaction the rest of the northern houses would have. Like the wolf cared what the inferior beasts thought of it.

After the Wolf King of Winter, Brandon Stark IX the Bloody Wolf had beaten the Red King Royce Bolton IV's army,(gods doesn't it sound like something out of a song?).

As it was Theon who had commanded the army. Theon fed the captured monarch's pale body to his direwolf in front of the Bolton's sons as vengeance for the dead of a burnt Winterfell. Vengeance for his mother and his father.

They had half of all the highborn sworn to the Redarm, flayed (to imitate their Bolton masters) and other half were stripped of whatever they were wearing and wore the skins of their flayed comrades for warmth on the way to the Wall. 'That should send them a reminder of why they don't fuck with the wolf.' Theon thought to himself darkly.

They kept the majority of the Redarm's soldiers on his orders, for later use keeping them as prisoners for the meantime. Theon remembered how he laughed himself stupid when the youngest Bolton started crying like an old woman at his father's death.

Despite the humor, when he found the runt's shrill little sobs irritating, without warning he grabbed the boy's head and gouged out his eyes with thumbs. he told him to carry the eyeballs in his hands and if he dropped either one of the bloody balls, he'd saw one of his brother's arms off and make him eat it.

After that little... performance the runt and his brothers kept real quiet all the way there. Strangely enough, nobody made a noise in his presence.

When they eventually reached the Dreadfort, hell fire was rained immediately as soon as the fort was within range. The missiles used were some of the foot soldiers that survived the battle lit aflame and sent 'home'. Theon was advised by his commanders that a two-year siege last the last one was... unsustainable.

Their stratagem was to make irregular attacks on a near-daily occurrence on the gates and walls of the keep usually on simultaneously so as to force the defenders of the fort were to spread their men too thin and confuse them.

This strategy cost them far more men than a regular siege ever would but it surely gave them the stronghold quicker than any expected. The siege lasted 2 months before the eastern gates gave way to the battering ram and in came the wolves slaughtering man any brave or fool enough to try and stop their bloody revenge. But they didn't account for any woman who stood in our way.

In front of the doors to the throne room, Selene Bolton stood defiantly her pale skin and hair as black as sin. Her eyes though were what made her the 'beauty of the north', they were a pale silver some men they were rumored to glow in a certain light. She stood not five steps away from Theon.

Theon snorted inwardly at those rumors, thinking; 'what could pretty eyes do against a raper or a mutilater? Make it all the more satisfying for him'.

His brother came from the rear alongside the other commanders and their bodyguards, to stand beside him. Bran was a man grown and had his own young pretty wife from the Rills, but he was still a man and men still had a cock.

His King stared at her hungrily and it looked unsure that he wouldn't take her as a prize then and there, Starks had done it before. At this point, Theon had lost all interest with having a staring contest with the stupid but rather pretty girl.

With his dripping scarlet sword, he made to strike her down. He took a step forward, taking malicious glee as her pale eyes widened in fear only to be stopped by a hand from his King next to him.

Selene regained her composure quickly, stating a warning "Try that again and-" "And what fair maiden? Shall House Bolton raise an army of Others?" Theon japed at her. His men taking a laugh at her expense.

The girl didn't enjoy the jape as much. Theon continued "Perhaps Lady Bolton would raise an army from her loins alone, I'm sure the good men here would be glad to assist her." A mighty roar from the men to his back showed support.

The lady's cheeks blushed from either embarrassment or rage, but despite that her words were calm and biting. "Should any man try such acts upon myself or any within my protection, they shall find themselves dead."

To this, most of the cheers had stopped. Say whatever you want about the Boltons they knew how to put the fear of the gods in a man.

Satisfied by the response she continued, staring at army before her with fear "Our bannermen on the coast have told us about Andal army from the sea by the Weeping Water." This wasn't the first time House Stark had heard of the Andals, they had killed the First Men Kings of the Riverlands and the Vale. They had proven themselves, terrors, to even the Children of the Forest, the Battle of the Red Lake had proven that.

Judging from her tone the severity of the tone apparently, the blonde haired blue-eyed cunts planned to something similar to the Winterlands.

Theon had heard of the Andals from some southron travelers and traders mostly whores and refugees who had come North. They thought that Westeros was some kind of 'holy land' given to them by their seven bastard gods.

They had gone around burning the weirwoods and killing the children of the forest calling them 'heathens' and 'pagans'. They had gone around raping and killing any of those who lived in lands previously.

They were so terrible that some of the First Men clans had banded together with the children of the forest to fight them and yet still lost. They weren't good news to put it plainly.

With this news, Bran decided on a hasty peace, and terms were decided between him and the flayed girl acting as the head of her House. It was moderated by Rickard and the Maester of the Dreadfort, an old fart who seemed a short trip away from death.

Theon felt that they could kill the Boltons, raze the Dreadfort and still be strong enough to throw the Andals back into the sea. But he was kept out of it and so entertained himself with some of the more pretty camp followers to pass the time.

By the evening of the same day, he was called to a room occupied by my brother and uncle, they seemed to be a deep conversation, they didn't even notice that he had entered the room until he had been forced to cough loudly to alert them of his presence.

"Ah, Theon there you are. Sorry there brother for the wait we were a little preoccupied" Bran said with a sheepish smirk. Theon responded quickly "It's alright, my lords.

"Why have you called me to this chamber? Have you made peace with the Boltons yet? The men are expecting a battle with the Andals, have you gotten any information on them?" Theon despite his experience was still a pup.

"Enough boy! We'll tell you when we're damn good and ready!" Uncle responds tiredly his hands cradling his head, a finger on each side rubbing soothing circles into his temples. Despite his little rant, Theon has some measure of pity for the man.

Knowing that he had probably been working through the night not only writing up the various terms and conditions but also thinking up battle strategies for the inevitable battle with the Andals. Despite the fact that such actions were for Theon's.

There Theon takes a quick glance around the solar of the late King Bolton, there were several wineskins and casks of ale, papers strewn about some screwed up, some torn to tiny pieces. Theon takes a more critical look as some of them not enough to be perceived by the two men before him.

Spying on building plans for a ruined Winterfell, a northern fleet on both sides of the north and some kind of greatsword? Strange man, well that's the blood of Bran the Builder for you.

"Uncle! That's quite enough from you!" Bran snarls at the man, his face scrunched up to make some sort of menacing scowl, he turns to Theon and softens, walking towards him and putting a friendly arm around the Prince's shoulder the King walks towards the most cluttered table, with his younger brother reluctantly following him.

"Theon there's no need of titles here you're amongst kin." finding it endearing that he'd try to defend his brother like that Theon gives is brother a warm smile.

Rickard sighs and sits back in his chair, his hands now gripping the armrests as he mutters grimly "Bran, can you just tell him why he's here",

"Aye, such knowledge wouldn't be amiss" his brother respond.

To that Bran simply hands him a piece of parchment, quickly reading it all the while glossing over most of it. Most of it's the usual crap of House so and so swearing fealty to House Stark, and recognizes them as the ruling house of the Winterlands, swearing to give them a regular tribute/token of fealty in the form of gold for their coffers, food for their stores and men for their wars.

I look up and ask "What's so special about this that I'd need to be made aware of?" Bran smiles sadly at me and says "read the last few lines"

So he does and eyes widen in shock. "Marriage?" spitting the word like it was a curse. "To the Boltons who killed our father? To those who burned our mother? How could you Bran?!" roaring at him, betrayal burning in his eyes and hate smoldering on his tongue.

"Don't forget who your king is, Theon!" Rickard replied jumping on his feet, his fists balled up, his eyes narrowed ready to defend his king as if Bran was some ill-born green boy that needed defending. Bran merely waves him down then turns to face his brothers as their eyes meet his with pity and sorrow and Theon's expecting an answer for this perceived slight.

When Bran speaks he sounds older with a weight to him that makes his shoulders sag, this is what they must mean by the 'burdens of the crown'. The physical change he takes makes the angry fire within his brother weaken, the words he says next kills it completely.

"Brother, the Boltons are the strongest house in the western side of our country. With their aid, no one would dare challenge us for fear of being flayed. If we make their house extinct or exile them, we would have no strongholds able to throw back the Andals; you know how they work they spread like a disease once they have a toehold in the land. We can't let that happen." his words though quiet leave an impact on his brother that impacts like an Umber's fist.

With silence as the only response Bran takes it as acceptance of his words and continues, "Also when we fought the Redarm, it wasn't his full strength, barely under half of his horse" Uncle snorts saying "The fool thought that he'd just pop in, burn the place then fuck off into the bloody sunset".

Theon remembered, even more as earlier in the year; how much had happened and why. The Redarm probably heard that most of the men of Winterfell had gone to witness Bran's wedding to the eldest daughter of the House Ryder which was part of the agreement to end the bloody war we had with them and to bring them under Stark rule.

In actuality, it had been a series of wars that had lasted nearly four hundred years, in where most of the Barrow Kings had been slain. The last of the Barrow Kings to survive the war being House Ryder who would gain the lands that had once belonged to their rivals.

When they heard about that a Bolton host was marching on Winterfell, concluded the wedding quickly and had the Ryders call their banners such as the Glenmore's and the Ryswells, as well as having their Maester send ravens to their vassals; Tallharts, Glovers and Blackwoods commanding them to rally their men and to meet them on the way.

By the time they made it to Winterfell two weeks later it was too late. Winterfell was a smoking ruin but they had an army some seventeen two thousand men stong and ready for battle.

The specifics of the hosts being; ten thousand infantry, two thousand archers, and five thousand horse. Their army was strong and had made good progress at this point, we could see the smoke no doubt from Winterfell, the very sight making Theon's wolfsblood boil. But focusing his anger for the battle ahead.

As they approached the enemy host, they found them still encamped on the banks of the rushing White Knife on a slight incline as they were in on one of the smaller Sheepstead Hills as it was still early morning. Their host was small three thousand horse or so, making sense as they want to make a quick job of it then hide behind the walls of the Dreadfort.

The Stark army surrounded them. Killing their sentries and as they did so. two thousand swords with the two thousand archers supporting from behind them on the higher Sheepstead Hills to the north, two thousand swords east with the five thousand horse in front of them to the east hiding in the Wolfswood and to the south were four thousand swords within visible sight of them.

The eastern host was to be led by Theon, his orders were to march at the Boltons in a quick march either to force them into a confrontation where their horses would be sandwiched by our own cavalry or scare them into running further into the hills where our archers would decimate them and allow the infantry to clean up the rest. There was no escape for the Boltons, and there would be no mercy for them either.

Beliving it to be humorous to wake the bastards up and watch them run about like headless chickens, to that he commanded that the horns blown for an hour, had the men to south start banging their swords on their shields, singing bawdy songs and stamping their feet as we marched in line.

The Bolton host woke up and tried to prepare themselves somehow, most of them were naked and were scrambling about. At this point, they were only minutes away from being within spitting distance of the flayed men.

Royce Bolton had rallied his panicking army and seemed to be preparing for a charge against the oncoming Starks before they were too close. To counter his tactic we stopped our march and had the men lock shields, sheath swords and stick the spears outwards going in between the holes/gaps left over by the shields. The pointy end being pointed at the enemy.

The Bolton cavalry began their charge; it'd be a short one due to the distance. Roughly little more than a half a minute before they hit the Stark troops. Hearing some men make their peace with the gods and to that, the Hungry Wolf smiled and roared "TODAY, BOYS DIE AND MEN WILL STAND ABOVE THEM, and VICTORS AND CHAMPIONS! ARE WE MEN OR ARE WE BOYS?!" "MEN!" I heard the reply across the line but it wasn't everyone, "VICTORS OR DEAD?!" "VICTORS" the shout of 4000 men shook the oncoming Bolton cavalry.

A good number of them died immediately on their spears, but the sheer force and speed broke the shield wall killing many of the men in the front lines. It was only through luck and skill that Theon survived. They had fulfilled their roles though and held them long enough for our cavalry to smash them in the back.

Nothing made him smile more than when he was wading through blood and bodies, killing men then decorating himself with their slick, sticky blood. It probably said something about-about a man on how being so close to death made him feel more alive than anything else he knew.

They lost some three thousand men to the Boltons, most of it being the infantry, but Boltons had suffered greatly, the majority of their men dead and remainder captured. The dead bodies of the opposing side from the battle were to the tossed into the river; the men nickname it the Red Rush.

Theon reminisced on all of this as he walked to the godswood for his marriage. Remembering how the Boltons could still call on near 10,000 men, which they would aid the Stark troops battle the Andals and send them to their seven hells.

The wedding was quick, witnessed by all the highborn men and women available on short notice making an audience of a good fifty. The feast afterward was small but it does the job of making everyone drunk and well-fed.

When Theon believes it is the right moment to take his wife to their chambers so as to consummate the marriage and conceive heirs, he grabs wife roughly and slings her over his shoulder as she was little more than a bag of potatoes.

He laughs as Selene's screams in shock and she makes cute yelps and threats to him as they make their way. Taking a final swig of ale with his free hand and then striding towards his chambers, smiling a little more as he thinks of the night he'll be having.

He enters the chamber and throws her roughly onto the soft bed. She's lies there, panting as if tired. She seems little ruffled but keeping most of her composure.

When she fully recovers she looks expectantly at her husband, there's some hate in those eyes but it's mostly curiosity. "So this is going to happen," she says dejectedly.

"What did you expect to happen? Your mad father burned my home to the ground and killed our kin." Laughing at the woman, as his words making her frown deeper as takes the words in.

"I expected you, your fool brother and the rest of you damned dogs to burn with them" her words were harsh and truthful. I just grin maliciously and pull her into me, my kisses were harsh and I grabbed her roughly.

He takes her like he would a whore or a wolf would take his bitch; quick, rough and only caring for his wants. Her screams add another layer of exhilaration that pushes him to more violence.

Unlike a good whore, she fights back scratching at her husband's face and back. He growls like the sigil of his House and starts biting at her neck, forcing moans and screams from her.

By the dawn of the next day, he's already putting his royal outfit on but catches a sight of his wife waking up.

"What're you doing?" she asks sleepily, "Preparing for an execution" she looks up at the man confused, "Who's?" she asks suspiciously.

"Your brothers", she thinks to herself for a while as he prepares to leave the room she says "Wait!" jumping from their bed.

"Give me five minutes, I want to be there", he shrug and leans against the wall watching her nude form scramble to pick up clothes and clean herself up from the last night.

AN

Please tell me if there are grammar or spelling problems or if you have an idea for the plot or an OC character you'd want in the story PM me.


	2. Theon II

Theon II

The execution was quick and somewhat unsatisfying in Theon's mind.

The remaining sons of the Red King were as naked as the day they were born. Their hands bound and behind them. Strung up by their feet, tied to different branches of great white tree strong enough to hold their weight.

Their mouths gagged to spare the spectators of the shrill cries of a quarter that they would squeal. Their eyes held terror and a begging for a mercy they knew would never come.

Bran stepped up and proclaimed "Here hang three sons, paying for their father's follies! They would ask you; good sons of the north for mercy! Would you grant it?!". A roar was heard and it's calling did not make the hanged children smile. But it made Theon's day.

Bran was handed a long knife, clean and polished. The polished bronze was so bright that it could be thought as gold.

'It's shine was a great deal brighter than its victims' indefinitely short future' Theon thought darkly.

Bran grabbed the head of the eldest and gently pushed his forehead back to expose his neck. Almost lazily he killed the boy, cutting his throat from ear to ear giving him a red smile worthy of Bolton.

He strolled his way to the others and killed them the same way. Their eyes never stopped staring, there was no hate, no fear just a sad acceptance. It made Theon rage and vow to never to accept death or defeat.

Little knowing how much that moment would change his life and those of his ancestors.

He glanced back to his wife, she looked indifferent her face held less warmth than the wall itself. He looked for tears, for grief, for emotional of any sort. He found none.

The men stood still watching the boys die, and after some time had gone by they left them there for the crows and gods.

Bran called a war council and assembled his lords and commanders; "So we know that there are Andals upon our shores thanks to Lady Bolton, but we do not know the full number of our enemies nor the number of reinforcements we summon from the Dreadfort".

The men were either sitting down or standing around a large map of the Winterlands, stretching from the Wall and its territories to the Neck and the Marsh Kings that rule it.

The last member of the ruling branch of House Bolton spoke softly "Good King, my lord father brought forth an army of only three thousand light cavalry to attack Winterfell as you all know-"

"Oh, we know..." Theon interrupted, his voice thick with a bitterness that was too foul for a soul so young to bear. His brother shot him a dark look commanding to keep his comments to himself, before turning to the Bolton and smiling kindly at her.

"If the roads are good and the weather is fair

"My lady, please continue" his brother apologized for him as he was wont to do. She merely nodded and continued "House Bolton can still rally an additional force of up to ten thousand men, from

After a moment of thought, Selene gave a quick response; "if the roads are food and the weather fair, it would take at most a month to fully rally the forces of House Bolton to the Dreadfort.

Brandon Tallhart came forth "How many men left do we have? Surely it's enough to throw back the Andals?"

King Bran turned his head to look at his brother, and Theon took it as a signal to give the report on their casualties and numbers.

"We marched on this campaign with six thousand men from the Barrowlands, meeting an additional five thousand at Torrhen's Square, then another six thousand as we passed through the Wolfswood. Giving us an army numbering seventeen thousand strong by the time we encounter the Bolton army."

The lords around the map nodded at the news and mumbled to each other, some boasting about exaggerated numbers that they contributed to the campaign.

Theon ignored the interruptions and continued "From the engagement with Bolton we lost three thousand men, mostly swords and some heavy cavalry. From the siege we lost two thousand men, all of them being swords."

At this news, the room took a much more somber atmosphere with there being an involuntary silence for those lost. Theon blinked and swallowed drily, but nevertheless continued

"We have a remainder of twelve thousand men. All of them fighting and able, from what I can tell morale is high due to the victories gained and another one is to be expected."

Rickard added his own queries on to the matter, "Do we know how strong the Andal host is or who commands them?"

Selene answered to this one "Aye, our information comes from the villages sworn to us by the mouth of the Weeping Water. From their estimations, they believe that the Andals number roughly more than half of our own strength, but this number has been growing quickly as they are being supported not only from Andalos but also from the Vale."

This gained a mixed response by many of the lords, as many were happy that they could easily crush the Andals as they were currently.

But the news of the Vale supporting them gave the idea that the should the current enemy fail, the Vale would quickly capitalize on a tired and weaken Winterland.

"Their commander is Argos Sevenstar, he has little experience as a general but is a skilled fighter with a fanatical devotion to his gods." Selene finished off on her report of the enemy.

Theon looked to his brother, to his King. Meanwhile, Bran stared intently at the markers symbolizing the enemy and their own forces.

Eventually after a short while that that felt like an age to the young princeling . "Lady Bolton, call upon your remaining forces. Have them meet us by Weeping Water, I shall leave mine own uncle to command this force in my name."

This was a curious thing Theon thought, as it was rare for Bran to ever let their uncle from his side.

His brother continued "I will take command of the host here, smash the Andals and send them to their Seven Hells. When the Bolton host led by my uncle meets up with us, we will take their ships and use them to launch attacks on the Vale."

This was a standard battle tactic of the Bloody Wolf; them as they rally their men while taking minimal losses and capitalize with devastating attacks on the enemy's territory.

While it was good to win wars, it wasn't Theon's style. He focused on a divide and conquer straight, making a spectacle of his enemy. Striking less at the men but more at the morale.

They had tested both of their preferred strategies against the Boltons and the Dustins. They had their benefits and drawbacks.

So by morn of the next day, the Stark brothers left the Dreadfort and began a march alongside the banks of the Weeping Water following the river to its mouth.

The march was long and arduous, but due to the river next to us, we lacked never for food or supplies. Camp followers at night and bawdy songs during the day kept morale high as the men in a rough column formation.

They made quick progress as the terrain was mostly flat grassland, as they marched they encountered some small fishing villages. Most of the men had left for the Dreadfort, but those that remained offered food and water which was much appreciated.

In truth in took them two weeks to arrive at the mouth of the river, their outriders spotting the enemy encampment not before being seen by the Andal sentries.

"From our scouts, we know that Andals now number nearly ten thousand strong. Their commander being in the center of their encampment." Theon gave the report from the outriders in the war council.

His brother stood crouched looking over the maps in the large tent made for the commanders, he turned and looked to his brother;"What is their position and do they have any defensive structure?".

When Theon spoke it was with a monotone voice that meshed in well with the grim words he was to speak.

"They have set themselves on the beach, with large wooden spikes planted firmly in the ground protecting them which acts well to deter any cavalry. Any engagement would be done be by infantry, the battle would no doubt have high losses for us as they have set up their camp in such a way that creates several choke-points in which is the only way to enter. At these, our choke points our greater numbers would mean nothing and their superior weapons and armor would cut us into ribbons."

To say that the atmosphere was a little lackluster in terms of morale after Theon spoke was putting it lightly.

To the surprise of everyone, Bran burst out in laughter, "Oh, cheer up. Overwhelming odds are nothing that we are in any way unused to."

As the man spoke he walked around the room looking his men in the eye as he did so.

"Our forefathers and grandfathers slew Others and nigh infinite armies of the dead, what failures would we be to their legacy if we couldn't throw back mere men? Brother, tell me what battle plan you've prepared for us?"

To Theon's surprised look, Bran merely smiled at him and spoke: "You have been my brother since we left the womb together, I know your mind as well as I know mine own."

Theon wasn't a soft man nor did he care much the emotions of the gentler sex, but even he basked in his brother's love for him.

When he spoke there was a certain lightness that wasn't there before the only recognizable by those who knew him truly, and of those there was only one.

"We have the element of surprise on our side, and it would be a true folly to simply lose it by charging right through their gates."

To this many of the commanders nodded, showing their agreement. Theon emboldened continued; "Using the full strength of our archers I would say that we bombard their camp with flaming arrows, such would not only strike their men dead but it would also set many tents afire, killing a good number of their forces as they sleep."

Lord Roderick Stout, one of commanding lords gruffly added his thoughts to the matter, "What of their ships? Should they be struck by the arrows we will have no method of reaching the Vale."

Theon though on those words for a while before replying to assuage the petty lord's fears. "We will focus the majority of our bombardment on the central and foremost tents. This would decrease any chance of the ships being hit to a minimum."

Bran opens his mouth to add his own thought, but before an even a letter could be heard from the King.

One of the pages bursts through the entrance of the tent, panting "Milords! The Andals are forming ranks, we've been spotted!".

This prompted an immediate reaction from the men in the room. The lords went to leave so as to rally their own and prepare to rally their own men. Their King leading the way, with his brother, quickly following behind him.

"Bran! Wait! What's the plan? If we just go there without a coherent strategy we will be slaughtered." Theon trying to counsel his brother, filling the uncomfortable role of their uncle.

The King faltered for a barely a second before turning his attention to his younger sibling, "We will use your plan, strike them down with waves arrows and then storm their camp."

With that, Bran went forward to inform the rest of the generals and commanders of the plan. Theon stood there, his face contorted in a manner showing his apprehension towards the matter.

He resolved to take the position of the rear guard with the cavalry just in case they were needed.

It took them a little under an hour to prepare their own men for the battle, but by the time they were fully prepared, so had the Andals.

They wisely kept to their fort, forcing the Stark host to attack them. Giving the Andals the advantage right from the beginning.

Bran gave the signal for the Starks fire waves of arrows upon the enemy encampment, in an attempt to set alight the wooden fortress weakening the walls and spikes somewhat but nowhere enough to make a cavalry charge a viable option.

While arrows rained down, the northern soldiers marched forward, shields raised up as they did so, to block any projectile weapons that the Andals would have fired. Bran and his honor guard at the forefront, raising morale with his sheer presence.

Theon saw all of this from his position, waiting in the rearguard to support his brother at the cost of even his own life.

By the time the Starks met the Andals in battle the barrage was over, so as to not hit of their own troops. The parts of the Andal encampment was a roaring inferno while others weren't as badly affected.

Theon sat astride a horse he watched his brother clash against the Andals, at first, the battle is evenly matched but as it goes continues the Andals begin to give way and are being pushed back into their camp.

The men around the cheer as they see their King push back the invaders, only to stop abruptly when they see two Andal battalions envelop the Northern army.

They realize that it was merely staggered fallback implemented by the Andals to lure the King into a trap, believing that with the King dead, the Stark host would break and would be easily routed.

Horns blow and the six thousand strong cavalry begin to gallop toward their king in an effort to turn the tide of battle, As they go, Theon divided them into three groups.

One to aid the King and the other two to aid other parts of the army should they be in need of any support.

As they came closer to the battle, they increased speed so turning a moderate gallop into a full charge, that turning ground beneath them upside down.

With Theon leading them, they jumped over one of the smoldering broken walls smash into the unprotected flanks of the Andal battalions.

Slicing into them with as much resistance as a hot knife through the underbelly of a squealing sow, causing just as much damage incidentally.

The wave of northern cavalry charged through them nearly unimpeded, most of the Andals in their way were churned into a fine paste as they fell beneath the bronze horseshoes of the heavy cavalry. Those that didn't were promptly cut down with extreme prejudice.

Theon cared for neither of these facts, as he held the reins of his warhorse with one hand and his longsword with the other hand that sung a truly terrible tune as it sliced men into halves and quarters.

It took them all but minutes to reach the King, surrounded on all sides by enemies, his body already wounded and bleeding. His honor guard strewn dead around him, and Argos Sevenstar in front of him.

The Andal commander was no demon, neither was he such a terrible scourge. He was a man, a very beautiful man. A sculpted face with sea-blue eyes and short golden hair.

He wore very little of the much-vaunted steel armor of the Andals instead choosing to put his trust in his gods rather than his steel.

Shown by the seven seven-pointed stars carved all over his body. One on his forehead, one on his each of biceps, one on his back, one on his chest and one on his palms.

But Theon didn't give him a second look as he galloped over to his brother, his honor guard engaging the Andals as went to meet his dying brother.

He all but leaped off his steed, catching his brother as he fell tiredly to the ground. Holding his dying brother in his arms, Theon for the first time in a long while began to weep for him.

Unable to hear the dying words of his brother over his grief, Theon closed his eyes and let loose a shuddering gasp. Mouthing a prayer that his mother taught him when she told him to always look over his brother and protect him.

When he opened his eyes, all and any grief was gone. Swallowed whole by the unending rage and overwhelming hate he felt for everything.

His mother and father for birthing him to feel this pain, his brother for dying, his men for not being better fighters, himself for not taking brother's place, his blood for placing this burden upon him, the sun and sky for existing.

The greatest amount of rage was for his enemies, not the Andals, not Argos. For the Andals were a people seeking a new home and Argos one of their many leaders.

Theon's enemies weren't people, they were things, that only existed to killed, to be tortured, to be slaughtered without any kind of mercy. To be raped, to be burnt alive until a mere mention of their existence was accompanied with thoughts of a violent death.

The greatest aspect of Theon's enemy was that they were never ending, Theon's enemies were whoever or whatever he wanted them to be. With such a thought process, the hunger of the wolf could never be sated.

To put it in the terms of the layman; Theon had lost his shit. Big time.

With such strong emotion, Theon was blinded and reached out for something, anything that he could use to kill, to maim, to cause pain with.

When both of his hands found such instruments, he howled. Letting his brother gently to the ground, he rose and sought to kill any in his path.

He swung his left hand as if to give a backhand strike. It impacted on something that gave a gurgled scream. He chose his left as it was heavier.

His gaunt face contorted in a sick and macabre grin as he hurt the thing before him. His right hand was grasping a hilt, and so believing to be sword he thrust it forwards, there was some resistance but it was barely worth mentioning.

There was a wet squelch as the object made is way further in. He tore his arm upwards, and as he did so there was a cry of agony, shuddering gasps then nothing.

Satisfied that its prey was dead, the Hungry Wolf searched for its next victim. Howling madly as if deranged, it charged forward.

Quickly and unstoppable, pouncing on something tearing it apart with its claws or ripping out its throat with its fangs or simply beating it to death with its strength.

At some point, Theon recovered his sanity and when he did he found himself covered with blood. His mouth full of the iron taste of blood not of his own. He looked at his hands, to the left there was dented lump of metal, it original purpose was forgotten.

After a moment of staring at the bloodied bronze, he remembered that at one point it as his brother's royal helm, recognizing it as such due to the band of bronze spikes.

Most of the spikes were coated in gory bloody chunks that at one point could have been parts of people. The bronze sheen had turned a dark crimson.

Theon looked at his right hand, this object was far easier to recognize for it had a long hilt with a cross guard.

To finish this off there would usually be a sword, but instead, there was a broken blade tinted a black tinted red. The break off was clean, as snapped off as if it was a twig.

Theon looked around himself and saw nothing but death, in the sky, on the earth, and upon the ground. Bodies further than the eye could even see.

Andal and northerner laid upon the ground side, at peace in death. If not in life.

Something came towards him, Theon still dazed as he was from his episode of madness and so could not accurately perceive what color the sky was.

It was a disfigured lump of worn meat and bloodied metal. As it came closer the definition of the creation became barely any better. It spoke once it deemed itself close enough it spoke tiredly, with a gruff accent.

"We've won the battle milord, but there's been no sign of the king and we've lost a good number of men. What do you say are actions should be?"

After a small while of waiting for a response, the creature realized that it was being ignored. After a cough to clear the throat, it spoke again. This time more tired but less gruffly,

"My prince?"

At this point, Theon was aware that he was having a conversation with someone. And so acted accordingly and spoke.

"My brother."

At this, the creature which was quickly becoming more like a northern soldier in likeness looked up sharply at every word the Stark made.

"My brother is dead."

At this news, the soldier's shoulders sagged and he let loose a sigh of grief.

"...my lord, I am so sorry for your loss, the king is dead-"

"My brother is dead, but your king stands before you."

At this news, the man was practically thunderstruck, unsure of what words to say. Luckily for him that Theon knew exactly what to say.

"Take me to command tent. Now."

The man nodded and walked across the battlefield, taking powerful purposeful steps. His face set in ways much like chiseled granite, unable to be changed.

His passenger, on the other hand, was far more troubled in his walk. Theon walked slowly as if unsure of his steps, swayed occasionally almost as if drunk. But almost miraculously he managed to keep up with the soldier.

As they walked, Theon examined himself. Apart from covered in blood from jaw to toe, he was mostly fine. Mostly. There was a broken arrowhead lodged in his left shoulder and other in his right thigh.

Theon looked at them bemused, wondering how they got there. The Andals were reported to have no archers. And all northern archers would have stopped firing by the time Theon's men had joined the fray.

As Theon contemplated on such a great conundrum. His guide had brought him to the commander's tent. Which he entered without a pause.

When he entered, the northern lords were on the brink of killing one another. Which was not really surprising, Theon reflected. The Winterlands were as large as all the other southern kingdoms combined, and was equally as diverse.

Taking his place at the head of the table, he roared; "Silence!"

At this mere word, the men stopped arguing between themselves and instead looked to the man before them, most were surprised by his arrival. The rest looked relieved to see their commander alive and well.

There was a moment of quiet awe before the noise started once more only this time its focus being on Theon.

Theon let them speak for a short while before he made his news; he threw his brother's bloodied helm in on the table as it bounced once then twice, then rolled on the table gaining everyone's immediate attention.

"The King is dead, slain by Argos of Sevenstars." There at the end of his news, the atmosphere of the room took a somber tone.

Nonetheless, Theon continued "My lords, tell me. How fares our men?"

"We've been cut down by at least half, your grace. We won't know the full number until sometime afterward, your grace.", Lord Jon Cerwyn answered his lord.

At the news, Theon closed his eyes and looked downwards for a few moments as he took in the news that he and had his brother had led thousands of northern men to their deaths.

Lord Cerwyn looked to his Kings noticing of how heavily affected his King was of the news and quickly continued hoping to deliver some good news,

"But of the Andals only five hundred of 'em remain, but erm... There was more of 'em, milord but some of our boys were somewhat depressed at how many we had lost and went on a bit of a rampage against those we had captured."

To this news, Theon merely nodded still affected greatly by the fact of their great losses. Another one of the nobles spoke up. Albert Glover heir to the Deepwood Moat, probably Lord now seeing how his father wasn't in the tent. Spoke his mind on one of the many issues at hand.

"King Brandon's wife, Queen Maryam Dustin. She is swollen with child last I heard. With the King dead, does she not take the role of Queen Regent and her babe our new king?" This set off a storm of mumbles among the lords.

That was a very good question, Theon thought. But it really wasn't what he had in mind of letting a woman that a year ago would have been his enemy rule over him.

Apparently, he wasn't the only man who thought the same. Lord Elrick Forrester spat violently at the floor, and bellowed angrily "I'll be damned if I let a boy borne of the Barrowlands rule me and mine." A cheer of support came from all sides of the room for this proclamation.

Emboldened, the man continued "We knelt to the Starks, and one of the King's own blood stands before us!" Forrester and the rest of the lords looked to Theon.

This was perfect. Theon had wanted a way to set himself as the greatest option for to be King, he had thought that it would take at least the better part of the day to do so as well as several bribes and threats.

But this was even better, as it left the only ones to convince were his uncle and House Dustin. His uncle could prove himself to be a difficult obstacle to bypass but Theon was certain that there were ways he could convince him. And if not well, kinslaying wasn't that bad of a sin when put into a larger perspective.

As for House Dustin, if the babe of Maryam's was a male he could promise a good marriage and a powerful castle for him. If female he would marry her to one of his own sons.

If they proved difficult, then it wouldn't be the first time House Stark would have annihilated a House that had questioned them. Just ask Houses Amber, Greenwood, Frost, and Towers. But that was the worst scenario option.

When Theon spoke it was the voice of a King. "My lords, I see that you would wish to raise me as your king." At this, all of the men in the tent looked expectantly at the man, hooked onto his each and every word.

He looked each and every one of them in the eye as he spoke, he may not have been a warrior rather than a politician but every good leader knew how to properly motivate their men.

"Your choices are an unborn babe, birthed by a woman of Dustin blood. An enemy that your houses have bled against for more than two hundred years. Bend the knee to House Dustin and forsake centuries of hard-fought sacrifices." The room rumbled as if a storm with all the rumbles of dissent against House Dustin

Theon recognized that he was making things more difficult for him in the long term by opening up old wounds with House Dustin but at this point, he frankly didn't care.

"Or a man who has led you to victory against the Boltons, a man who has the blood of Bran the Builder flowing through him, a man who would lead you to victory against the Andals!"

Theon was unsure of when they had started chanting 'King in the North' but he didn't care so long as it was him that bore the title.


	3. Richard I

**Rickard I**

Everyone has those days on where it seems that the world is out to shit on you and your lofty goals of peace and quiet.

All Rickard ever truly wanted was to better his house by serving his brother and his progeny. He understood and recognized that he would never get his name in the history books, alongside legends like Bran the Builder or Garth the Greenhand.

He was happy being a footnote in history. He knew from a young age what he was. 'A spare for the heir' he remembered his father telling him. A spare that grew less and less needed as his brother had sons.

And he was fine with how his life had spanned out. He had no sons, took no wife as he didn't feel the ache of lonely bed. For simply sharing blood with the king, usually expensive whores spread their legs cheaply.

With his brother Jorgen and his son dead, that did leave his nephew; Theon to be the king. But it wasn't as Bran had a wife who he did leave pregnant before his unfortunate death.

Gods, Bran. Rickard knew that Bran would one day be great, the greatest ever to live since the Builder himself. That boy that great plans that would have catapulted House Stark into greatness. But he was dead and his plans with him.

Theon was nothing like his brother, he would rather the sword over any diplomacy. His head was filled plans of war and conquest which would only be gained through standing on mountains of corpses.

As a man who lost his childhood and innocence on the godforsaken hills that were the Barrowlands. He remembered his friends get decimated by oncoming hails of arrows, his cousin gets scalped by a Barrowking, his direwolf get an iron lance through jaws, his men die by the hundreds.

And to this day he's reminded that they won that battle and subsequently the war. He had slain the commander of the army himself he remembered with weathered pride. The barrow prince and his brothers, in his crippling rage at the losses he had. The crushing shame he felt when he savagely decapitated children that barely made it to his waist.

The Barrow Wars, a two-hundred-year-long series of wars in where House Stark and their banners bled bitterly, battling against the Barrow King, in each one taking more and more territory until they had wiped the last of the Kings felt it wiser to kneel to the men who had slain his sons rather than lose even more.

And now his nephew was about to throw away two hundred years of carnage all for the sake of what? A hollow crown. Truly it was a master stroke to not only lose most of your host and then rely on one from a newly inducted vassal that more than likely to hold some resentment for being forced to bend the knee and being reduced to one singular member.

But who was he to get in the way of Theon's foolish idea of attacking not only the Vale but also the Andals directly when they were in the process of spreading their beliefs across an entire continent and had actually supplanted two Kingdoms.

He recognized his nephew's skill in battle both as a warrior and a field commander, but it was one thing to win a battle and another thing completely to win a war. He held no doubt that with enough men and enough time, his nephew could win any battle. It's why they included him in all the battle plans and strategies. But his nephew had never been tasked to win a war.

It's why Bran and himself had secret meetings discuss the big picture that many forgot about, rebuilding Winterfell, improving the land they currently held dominion over, balancing the relationship of power between vassal and overlord efficiently, starting up a northern navy now that they had a part of the coastline as well as a hundred other issues that couldn't be solved with a sword.

And it's because of that he could never see eye to eye with his warlike nephew. He had yet to refer his nephew as King because it was still up in the air whether or not he would retain the position or be killed for his ambition.

If Rickard acted like his nephew, - a bullhead fool- he would use the Bolton to crush the Stark host and claim the throne for himself and his line. Ignoring the fact that the men he currently commanded were Bolton men, not Stark and were only following him at the behest of Lady Selene.

A lady who could very easily turn on him, a lady that he really didn't like but was forced to up with as not only would the men he commanded slaughter him without her command but there was something cathartic about forcing the haughty woman to defer to him.

But the issue at hand was far more compelling; whether to tear a crown off from the head of his nephew or to swear his sword and all the men that followed him.

Despite his dislike of the man, Rickard would much rather kneel to the son of his brother rather than the son of his nephew it wasn't out of any kind of hatred he had for House Dustin or any love he held for his nephew.

It was simply being frank, they were in a war with the Andals and presumably the Vale. A pregnant woman would not be the ablest leader for a war.

While his nephew did have his faults, his many, many faults.

He was the most practical candidate to lead them. He was renowned general and fighter, connected to two lines of Kings. Had the respect and awe of the men he led.

By all accounts, Theon was a perfect choice or at least the most suited option. That didn't mean Rickard had to like it, in fact, he didn't.

Rickard met Theon's host three days after the battle. When he entered the command tent with his commanders, he was met with his nephew sitting at the head of a table adorned with a freshly forged crown but it was different to the crown of his forbearers.

Where the usual crown was a band of bronze and iron spikes. Theon's was a circlet of steel inscribed in protective runes of their people and surmounted with nine black iron spikes in the shape of longswords and upon each of the swords were lumps of dull copper in a startling accurate visage a screaming skull. At the forefront of the crown was a steel wolf's head.

As Rickard looked at the crown and wondered what the past kings would have done; Jorgen would have just look at his son and smiled, forgiving him of all but the worst transgressions like he always did. Bran would have rolled his eyes, ruffled his brother's hair and focused on something that was far more important.

Rickard was neither of these men and so acted like neither of them, he tilted his head forward slightly and spoke: "My king, I bring a forth a host of fourteen thousand men. My men and myself at your command."

At this Theon's interest was piqued, "Fourteen thousand men? I was led to believe that the Dreadfort could raise a host of twelve thousand, perhaps even less after we had defeated the Red King."

Rickard truly hated his nephew's tactless politicking, for, at the mere mention of the dead monarch, the Bolton men that Rickard had brought with him stirred with angry rumbles. They quickly quieted themselves, but their dissent was noted and would be remembered.

"I believed that the Dreadfort was more than adequately fortified and felt it that they had an excess of soldiers that would be of greater use alongside your host, my lord", Rickard's words were full of a sickeningly sweet honey that made Theon raise an eyebrow and tilt his head to left slightly in intrigue. No doubt the boy thought it rather strange for his typically unfriendly uncle to refer to him so.

And as for the Dreadfort, Rickard would hate himself greatly if he allowed House Bolton to hold any substantial quantity of men that they use of for any offensive reason. So took as much as he could get away with, which was quite a lot.

He rationed that House Bolton had no more than a hundred men left to man the defenses of their fortress, and should they try to call their banners once more. So as to scrape the barrel, they would have three thousand green boys at best.

But for now, it was time for Rickard to kowtow to his nephew and receive orders from him like a loyal foxhound. He also idly saw that the boy's direwolf was lying by his right side.

Once Theon started to speak all men focused upon their king; "We have two targets to attack; The Vale and Andalos." If being a king didn't work, his nephew would surely find it easy to become a mummer, from the way he spoke it would have been easy to mistake him with a storyteller.

"I will take a host of ten thousand men to strike at Andalos, using the large convoy ships that the Andals had left." As the boy continued he looked at his uncle standing directly in front of him. "Uncle, you shall take the remaining nine thousand and use them to carve a bloody charge deep into the heartlands of the Vale, especially the Vale of Arryn. For what greater insult would there be for us to penetrate the innermost sanctum of the House Arryn."

Theon broke out into the righteous laughter of a man satisfied with his own ideas and plans as he finished. His boyish looks all the more handsome with his joyous smile. The majority of the men within the tent shared his laughter, their king's amusement as infectious as the genital warts of the most popular whore in a port.

And just as horrendous and obscene.

Theon intended for the Stark kingdom to be left defenceless and leaderless, as not only would he take their soldiers out the kingdom. House Stark had recently suffered a major depopulation, firstly with the destruction with Winterfell, and the war that followed shortly after.

Most of Bran's honour guard was made up of Stark men who had gone with him to his wedding in the Barrowlands leaving their families at Winterfell. These families promptly died when the Boltons burned the place down. Hearing that Bran had died in battle didn't leave Rickard with much hope on how many of those men would be alive.

Depending on how many died, House Stark would be dangerously close to extinction as Rickard and his nephew who had a tendency for charging headfirst into wars were the only ones left of their house. Perhaps Rickard needed to re-think the idea of having a wife.

And a minimal number of Starks left meant that they couldn't leave anyone as Lord Protector while they went off to war. Lest they give the title to one of their lords causing the argument of favouritism. There was the idea that Theon could give the title, its responsibilities and its powers to his wife.

It would make the most sense as it was the woman's house that currently held the highest number of men in this army and it would go along as a show of trust that could smoothen over some of the many grudges between Houses Stark and Bolton.

But there were many issues that spoke of good reason as to not; House Dustin could see it as slight leading to war, many houses had lost men to the short war with House Bolton as well as dozen long ones that had occurred prior which could mean resentment, little amongst the nobility held any affection for House Bolton then so would chafe under her and most importantly neither Rickard or Theon trusted her at all.

Hopefully, there would be at least one competent Stark left from the battle so as to fulfil the role. Although the pessimist in Rickard kept him from getting his hopes up.

It was this point that Rickard noticed that his nephew had just finished his meeting and so realised that he had just missed the majority of the meeting. He blinked rapidly and made his way to his nephew, men parting for him when they realised what he was doing.

When he reached his nephew, he was welcomed with a smile that seemed so forced that would have been friendly to not have smiled in the first place. "Uncle, what can I do for you", It seemed that the boy had gained some semblance of common courtesy.

At his nephew's show of his pedigree breeding, something that Rickard would struggle to believe if he had not seen the boy in Arya's arms as a new born all those long years ago. "Your grace, I believe that it would be best to inform you of the plans your late brother shared with myself."

As he started Theon looked to be on the edge of losing interest with his uncle. But at the word of 'brother', the boy looked have somebody to have thrown cold water him if you had seen his reaction and snap to attention.

"What plans, Uncle?" The boy who wore a king, asked him as if he was starving man begging for some scrap of food.

Inwardly sneering at the boy, Rickard smiled warmly and continued "Your brother, left clear instructions for the rebuilding of Winterfell as well many developments to made for the benefit for the north. It was your brother's wish for the wars that had ravaged our homeland be put to an end. It was your brother's dream for you to be at content and happy with a family."

Rickard thought he was putting it on a little thick with just how many time he had mentioned the boys brother. But it did seem to be affective as Theon looked at the map in front of him intensely, before sighing and looking back towards his uncle.

"Uncle, my brother and my father saw it fit to make you their right hand and most trusted advisor. Acting with near unbounded impunity to act in their name across the realm. I would wish to do the same. What would you recommend would be best course of action at this point?"

As Theon spoke, Rickard took a look of being honoured and as the boy spieled on more and more. It wasn't that he wasn't honoured by the words said, he was. It was that similar words had been spoken by Theon's predecessors.

A little time before Theon stopped talking, Rickard thought on what was the best course of action. They couldn't back out of war as it was. But a good idea that came to him was to use as little men as possible. "Instead of attacking the Vale proper, we instead attack the outlying islands. We can use them to raid and harry the trade and flow of gold into the land."

Noting the frowning face of his nephew, Rickard spoke a little quicker, "If we can take islands such as the Three Sisters, we can build up a southern war fleet which we can use to easily transport an army to the Vale and war with them all the easier."

By attacking the isles, it gave Rickard the ease of being able to quickly retreat to the north in case of an invasion or the sort. And the Sistermen had a nasty reputation of being raiders, which told him that they wouldn't be good in any sustained battle. And they would be skilled sailors, perfect for a northern war fleet.

Focusing once more on Theon, he looked to see his nephew look and smile. "I believe that it would be more beneficial in the long run to conquer than to simply ravage and raze. I will aim to do the same in Andalos. Thank you for this advice, Uncle." The boy smiled warmly at him, nodding and leaving the tent with his wolf following him dutifully.

 **AN**

 **Thanks for reading. Please drop a review if you can; plot/character ideas or simple criticism. Everything is welcome. Thank you and good day.**


	4. Richard II

**Rickard II**

Looking back on the events that had past, it could be described as too easy in the way he had planned to take the Islands of the Bite, most were ruled by a singular house and one would expect some sort of alliance or cooperation between these houses due to living in such proximity with one another. There was no sort of unity or alliance between any of the houses.

The Three Sisters called themselves a kingdom; with House Sunderland of Sisterton as the ruling house but in reality the only way House Sunderland could get any of the other houses of the Three Sisters to do anything more than aggressively ignoring them was a violent struggle which did nothing to breed any kind of camaraderie between these houses.

With a host of nine thousand, it wouldn't difficult to capture five warring islands that between themselves would struggle to raise anything beyond five thousand men even if they had been unified. Rickard started at the Pebble which was a small rocky island with little in the way of fertile crops that told him that was sparsely populated due to the relative smallness of the land. As the most of Westeros' economy was based on agriculture.

At the time Rickard wondered if the people on the isles knew of the basics of large-scale fishing, it didn't seem like such from how the people thought the large convoy ships that Rickard transported his army with was some sort of sorcery. To be fair to the people, it was a sort of sorcery, the kind that won wars.

Either way, the occupation of the island was a simple and an almost insultingly easy affair. The culture of the people was of the First Men, a pleasant surprise as Rickard thought that since the Andals had conquered the Vale they would have also taken islands such as this which would be close to them.

At the mere indirect show of force when the landing ships made it to the island uncontested, House Pryor laid down their arms and requested for a treaty to discuss the terms of surrender.

The demands were simple and a staple of all Stark conquests; fealty, tributes through taxes and the eldest two male offspring as well as the eldest unmarried female offspring.

In this case, House also rallied the men of their small island to arms, adding a paltry but well-meaning few hundred men to his currently unscathed nine thousand.

He sent the noble children he gained from House Pryor back to the north with a guard of some twenty northerners as well as discussed the information that House Pryor had on the remaining houses of the Bite. From Lord Jon Pryor he knew that they had warred against each other before and so the information held was of great import.

Rickard considered on whether or not it would be worth the trouble of taking the island of the Paps, as despite its location within the Narrow Sea, eventually, he decided that it shouldn't be of too much difficulty and no one would argue with him if he did.

He split his host into fours, one for each of the islands remaining. He himself didn't leave the Pebble as he remained with a guard of hundred loyal Stark men, a luxury in such troubling times. He needed to remain firstly to consolidate northern hold on the people and maintain Stark control in the Winterlands which he did through letters to Queens Selene and Maryam.

He conspired with the both of them so as to ensure he would know first-hand knowledge of what they planned to do against one another. Apart from rather vicious plans to kill each other they also kept him informed on the actions of the neighbouring kingdoms.

Maryam informed him on how the kingdom of the Neck was faring due to the recent major invasions from the Andal controlled Riverlands, Westerlands and Vale.

Apparently rather well, as they would ruthlessly pick off Andal hosts that would march into the marshes and swamps of the Neck before shattering such hosts against the walls of the Marshmoat, the as of yet unconquerable ring fort of their ruling house; House Wormwood.

When Rickard cast his mind back to the days of his youth when he served as a diplomat for House Stark to other kingdoms he remembered the intolerably smug smiles and pleased with oneself self-semantics that the neck-lords were of the damnable fort, he hated it especially when they tried to ram the verbal diatribe was so pasted with arrogance he thought that he was talking to Lannisters.

Rickard shivered at the horrid memories of conversing with the Lannisters.

The kingdoms of Rills, the Sea Dragon, Bear Island, and the Stony Shore unified into the Kingdom-by-the-Sunset-Sea, ruled by House Fisher of Hookpoint upon Sea Dragon's Point. This was surprising and somewhat threatening as the Sunset Kingdom would surely be a great naval power, in fact, the reason they unified would more than likely be to combat the growing Ironborn threat.

After the fall of House Greyiron by the Andals and the subsequent rise of House Hoare as the new Driftwood King was the only viable reason for why there would be such an upsurge in coastal raids by the Ironborn.

Further North Selene told him that everything was much the same, House Umber ruled the warring Mountain clans, and the Skagosi were still as much of a nuisance as ever. Except there was a bit of noise from the Wall, there were rumours of a city beyond the wall.

If there was city beyond the wall, it could change their entire opinion of the wildings for the mere fact that no-one thought that the most they had were huts in the snow. If the wildlings were technologically advanced enough to do so then they could also be able of mounting some kind of attack upon the Wall itself. While there had been King-Beyond-the-Wall before; Joramun who had fought alongside House Stark to slay the Night's King.

While Rickard could not claim to have any sort of knowledge of the wildlings or their habits, he did know that the wildlings were socially behind the rest of the nation as they were still a collection of petty kingdoms rather than larger kingdom that was currently the standard for Westeros. He had heard that the title King-Beyond-the-Wall wasn't one of succession but rather one of strength.

To which told him that whoever that the King-Beyond-the-Wall was he wouldn't be one for talking.

If there was city beyond the wall, it could change their entire opinion of the wildings for the mere fact that no-one thought that the most they had were huts in the snow. If the wildlings were technologically advanced enough to do so then they could also be able of mounting some kind of attack upon the Wall itself.

While there had been King-Beyond-the-Wall before; Joramun who had fought alongside House Stark to slay the Night's King. Rickard wasn't very sure if this current King-Beyond-the-Wall would be as willing to talk as his forbearers. If he was, then Rickard wasn't sure that he would have the patience of a saint to suffer through Theon.

Thinking of Theon, as he helped himself to another bottle of Sistermen scotch. Which he found to be the only good thing about the entire invasion despite not believing it quite so good enough to invade the damn place.

He had heard little but rumours about Theon's conquest into Essos to face the Andals at their home. He hoped that the little shit hadn't died, that would be exactly like the boy to just up and die as soon as it was the most inconvenient for everybody. If Theon died that would mean that the succession would be completely in the air and House Stark would be practically extinct, as its members would consist of on old bitter man and two unborn babes.

Maybe he needed to look further into the idea of a wife and heirs.

If Theon did die then there was nothing stopping Houses Bolton and Dustin from declaring themselves Kings through the claim of their children and then waging war against one another. Despite the fact that both of them had just lost a war in the last decade. If both of their children turned out to be girls instead of boys, then that would leave Rickard as the King of Wolves.

A king. What did that title mean to him? A hollow crown, all of his kin dead, his castle a burned out husk, his kingdom ravaged by wars, his men dead fighting in those wars, his enemies on all sides waiting to tear into the corpse that was House Stark.

No. Rickard as the King of Wolves would be the single worst future for House Stark as it was. Theon as insufferably annoying as he was needed to live long enough so as to restart their house and Rickard himself needed to live long enough so as to repair and improve their kingdom by implementing Bran's ideas.

 **/LINEBREAK\\\**

It had been six months since Rickard had landed arrived on the Isles of the Bite, most of it had been rather pedestrian Houses Pryor of Pebble, Elseham of Paps had surrendered swiftly and had sworn fealty to Stark easier than he had imagined. When he talked to the heads of those Houses he saw that it was more of a quiet resignation that with the forming of larger kingdoms around them, the realised that they would be annexed sooner rather than later.

When he spoke to the old lady Gwin Elseham of the Paps, he was treated kindly as if he was an honoured guest rather than an invader, it was rather surreal on reflection; to see an old woman surrounded by hardened killers and warding them off with a wizened smile and the warmth only a grandmother could convey. When he displayed the terms of their surrender, he felt a shame he hadn't felt since his dead mother had last scolded him when he was far younger.

The terms were identical to ones he had presented to House Pryor, he still felt like he was an Ironborn raider coming to rape the women and ravage the land. The Paps were similar to the Pebble in land and size; most of it being rocky and difficult to properly farm, but they had a somewhat larger population due to the influx of Andals that had come to the island. When Rickard first heard of that, he expected there to be some sort of violent outcry that the Andals would live under any sort of First Men rule.

But instead he was informed that the majority of Andals were more indifferent to the idea of violence against their First Men neighbours, so long as they were allowed to celebrate their culture and religions peaceful coexistence wasn't too difficult to achieve. It made Rickard hopeful for the future.

Lady Elseham had nothing but praise for the new immigrants, as with their new technology of steel and teachings of larger fishing boats made life on the island far more tolerable than it was previously.

For the last couple years of being embroiled in war after war, it was nice to see what peace could be like. Maybe after the war, he could return. Since he was feeling rather congenial towards the Elsehams and the island as a whole, he was willing to allow them more liberties than he would give usually; Lady Elseham took full advantage of this, instead of House Stark taking the two eldest males and eldest female for hostages instead they would only take the heir and he himself would marry into House Elseham, taking a woman from their house that would be approved from both himself and Lady Gwin. The taxes on the island would remain the usual.

To an outsider that may be too much for a house that ruled over a somewhat mediocre island in the middle of nowhere. But Rickard was an old man, with no lands to his name. Lady Gwin's husband died of old age years past and her eldest son had died in a storm. All that was left to her was her two daughters who were unmarried and her three grandsons whose mother had died of sickness. Should Rickard marry into such a House not only would it tie them and the rest of the isles to the mainland but it would deter any of the other houses from trying to usurp their position.

Rickard would gain a wife, which was really at this point all he really needed. She didn't need to be comely or be interesting all he needed was heirs. And he truly didn't mind staying on the Paps to do so. He married the fair maiden Perrianne Elseham two days after the terms had been ratified and bedded her on the same night. Perrianne was a demure lady who had been properly taught to do whatsoever her lord husband wanted and not so much a noise if she held any sort of disagreement. A brown eyed a black haired woman who was slim and would appear attractive to any man. Her dress and personality was as plain as a cloudless sky but she didn't need to make him laugh or give him wise counsel all she needed was to bear him sons.

To Rickard all that meant was that she was a quiet girl, nearly six years his younger and if there any sort of personality behind those docile eyes and comely face it was well and truly repressed. He took his wife and his men and left the island. Giving a polite farewell to Lady Elseham

When he made it to the Three Sisters he immediately noted a considerable difference between these islands and the ones he had already visited. Unlike the islands that were rocky and small, these were significantly larger and were far more forested. In terms of size, he would equate them to double the size of Pyke or triple that of Bear Island.

And another considerable difference was that unlike the Pebble and the Paps, the Three Sisters all resisted the Stark host, not to any considerable degree as they were vastly outnumbered, the attack was relatively sudden to the Sistermen striking them without a good number of their defences and the Northerners were using steel as compared to the bronze of the Sistermen.

While the attack was not as easy as his own capture of the Pebble, in where the enemy capitulated when they saw his men land. It was nowhere as difficult as the uphill sieges of the Barrow Wars or the bloody constant attacks of the Dreadfort. Those where wars and terror those were truly terrible things in where men died in their hundred on both sides, death could come abruptly and without warning.

Rickard blinked rapidly to stave off the repressed recollections of memories that he wanted to forget so badly he drank himself to near death when it first happened and would have died if not for his brother and nephew.

His journey was short and uneventful, all he saw on the way he had already seen before. He tried to keep up some type of conversation but the girl seemed the squirm away from him at the mere sight of him until he called her back and even then she tried to look anywhere but his eyes and seemed to be averse to the sheer concept of interesting conversation. After a few failed attempts of trying to talk to his wife he gave up and resigned himself to just leaving her be until when in bed and fulfilling his husbandly duty.

When he docked at the port of Sisterton, he gave express orders not to leave the boat until he deliberately called for her which he probably wouldn't do until he already in bed waiting for her. He made it to the fortress that oversaw the small, mean town, rank with the odours of pig shit and rotting fish. Its streets are made of mud and planks, while its houses daub-and-wattle hovels roofed with straw. He was truly unimpressed at the sight of it.

That's not to say that the Breakwater impressed him anymore, for that was even worse, he reckoned that even the corpse of Winterfell as it was now could be better fortress than this mess. As he saw it the Breakwater was built partially on huge, stone arches that stand as bulwarks against the Bite. Entry to the castle was by a bridge of black basalt and a rusty iron portcullis. As Rickard entered the squeaks and creaks of the old thing made him consider tearing it down in its entirety.

Its defences, -if they could be call as such- included a 'deep' moat and a drawbridge supported by two massive rusted chains, followed by a larger gatehouse of algae-covered stones. Rickard climbed up the uneven cobblestone steps lead to Breakwater's cavernous stone keep.

And the less said about the hall the better, to put it bluntly, it was gloomy enough that one needed a torch to navigate through it even if it was the sunniest day of the year. There were enough leaks in the roof that one could simply leave their empty cup out for a short while and it would refill itself. Not that Rickard would recommend drinking the water that would be there for any but his worst enemies.

He heard before he saw the ensemble of lords before him. Insults flew back and forth, death threats and accusations followed quickly after. Rickard thanked the gods for granting him the foresight for not only make sure that no one was armed but also it was only his guardsmen that lined the black walls of the hall, silent but making enough of an impression that it effectively dissuaded anybody from fighting physically rather than verbally.

When he entered the eyesight of the four nobles who's lands he had captured, his generals and their lieutenants flanking him, he knew truly made an intimidating sight. He glanced to his right and immediately words were spoken. "My lords, I believe that you are all aware why we are here this day." The accent was of the deep north, but the voice was that of a young man. Danwell Hornwood was the fourth son of his father. His elder kin had gone with Theon. Danwell chose to be different.

Near instantly a shrill voice came screeching out; "Yes, you filthy dog! You and your savages came into my home, killing my brothers and sons like the savages that you prove yourselves to be and then threatened to rape me and my daughters before killing us if we didn't do as you said!" He looked at the person who dared to speak like that; it was a Lady Mylessa Borrell, a married woman younger than Theon did.

The woman looked red in the face with anger, with a slender, no doubt soft finger pointed accusingly to Hornwood. To the man's credit, he didn't react as Rickard would have; with a slap to the wretch's face and throwing her and her daughters to the men to be used as entertainment. For a week if he was feeling kind, indefinitely if he was not. And if those words were towards him then gods take pity on the woman because of he would not.

Instead, Hornwood sneered at the woman, "Wretch, speak to me like that and I will personally ensure that your life will be short and filled with watching the agony upon the faces of your 'precious' daughters." When the man had stopped speaking and had paled considerably before retreating a god distance away from the man. Rickard suppressed a snicker when he smelt the fear permeating from the woman.

Lord Jothos Longthorpe of Longsister, Lord Harras Torrent of Littlesister, Lady Mylessa Borrell of Sweetsister and finally Geremy Sunderland. All of them had fought against his army, all of them had failed, all of them would bend the knee or watch as they and their houses were slaughtered.

He looked them all squarely in the eye and made their options clear as could be; "Kneel and swear fealty or you and your house will die." he fondly remembered his brother and father praising him for his eloquent speech when they sent him off to play diplomat.

He stared down at them for waiting expectantly for their answer. As expected there were looks of anger, clenched fists and murmurs of dissent. Which he noted, vowed to remember. A minute later, after a tense silence each of them, bent the knee before signed the terms of surrender and left the hall angrily.

Rickard spun on his heel and looked at the faces of the men he had brought with him, most looked mildly impressed, the others kept a stony visage. He took a look at all of them before smirking, "That went well, didn't it?" his voice was self-content if not slightly smug. At the words, most of them had a little chuckle or snicker. Rickard dismissed them and left the dark hall before leaving to his own quarters on his ship.

As he walked he idly wondered if his cousin was faring as well as he was

 **AN- Thanks for reading and please leave a review.**

 **For anybody who played EU4 like myself, i thought it would be cool if I showed how the Starks and a few others were in terms of stats.**

 **Theon; Adm 2 Dip 1 Mil 5**

 **Rick; Adm 4 Dip 3 Mil 3**

 **Selene; Adm 4 Dip 4 Mil 2**


	5. Theon III

**Theon III**

It took them two months to journey from the Weeping Water to the coast of Andalos. Theon mainly spent the time with his commanders, planning for the battle ahead as well as learning what could of the Andals and their culture as he planned to rule them in the very near future. Theon truly found it boring but endeavored to get through it one of his many duties as king. Currently, Theon was within his royal tent in his bed as the sun had already set and the men were preparing for a long march on the morning of the next day.

He heard whining to his right, he turned and saw his ever faithful companion; Quicksilver. His wolf could make him smile whatever happened He remembered fondly when he received his wolf, it was a part of his birthright as a Stark. The wolf was light grey with dark streaks runs through his fur, with intelligent eyes of molten silver. His size and power made him and terror on that battlefield, those fangs which could slice through plate and mail armor with unsettling ease.

He paused in his diatribe to focus on his friend, scratching him in all the places he wanted to be scratched, accepting his licks to face with a made a note of giving his wolf more snacks when he had the time. Theon wondered how would the direwolves of his children be, would they as ferocious as his own? Would they seek war and conflict as his did? He thought of his children, whether they would take after their father who was regarded as a warmongering king who butchered everything in his way or their mother who could skin a man alive with the same ease she could dress herself.

Theon expected his duties and responsibilities to increase a hundredfold when he placed the crown upon his head but, by the gods! It was still a depressing number of new things for him to go. He examined himself in a mirror in his cabin and saw a grey hair. A grey bloody hair! He hadn't even broken twenty and five namedays yet!

The very sight of it depressed him even more. He wondered how his father and brother would react upon seeing wearing a king's crown? Would they swell with pride at the sight, would they roar in anger at mistakes he would no doubt make, or would they merely shake their head in sadness knowing that it would be the North that ruined him as it had been the North that ruined them.

All the same, Theon swore that when he would eventually fall, his descendants would look upon him with pride knowing that all he did, he did for the North. No matter how blood was spilt, no matter how many tears would fall, no matter how many hearts would break, let history know that it was all for the North.

He reflected on that as he carved a bloody path through Andalos, sacking towns, septs and villages on his way. His army was akin to a swarm of locusts as they devoured anything in their way; food, water, life. Nothing was allowed to go unravaged, no women or girls unmolested, no livestock not slaughtered.

The men were either enslaved or killed. Some of Bolton men took a perverse glee at skinning those who they captured and turning the skin into cloaks or sheaths for their knives, which they would use to skin more men. Theon could have done something about this. He could have commanded that the men leave the people alone, even to aid them in whatever they could. But whenever he looked at them, with their foreign tongue and seven gods, he was reminded of Argos of Sevenstars. The man who killed his brother. His enemy. His prey.

He thought of Argos and everything became easy as staring at the sunset itself, every razed town, every atrocity, every hanged family, every enslaved child, became easy to him. And by some miracle of hell, it did not, well then alcohol would make it easy.

Gods, he hoped that his children took after his wife rather than himself.

The next morning didn't so much bring a march so much as another day of pillaging and looting. Theon and the majority of the commanders weren't needed as they weren't a battle to be had, and so the king commanded that there be a temporary camp with a few hundred men to serve as guards while the rest of the army had their fun. Within the king's own tent, Theon looked down to the map on an oaken table in which there was a map of Eastern Essos from Andalos down to the Stepstones. He remembered the advice of his uncle in that to ensure that the Andals wouldn't attempt another invasion of the Winterlands again he was to conquer the Andalos in the name of House Stark.

While Theon agreed somewhat with his uncle's idea of conquering parts of Essos, he didn't think that Andalos should be the end of their aspirations. That's not to say that Theon believed that they could take the entirety of Essos, he had few men and too little time for that. But they could take the northernmost coastlines and at least a few miles inland as well. Theon himself had proved that he had landed in Andalos and originally they had pushed westward, killing everything and anything that was of Andal descent or ownership. No force came to meet them, no resistance. Then out of curiosity more than anything, he sent allowed two thousand men to march east and another two thousand north. He kept in touch with the various hosts through riders who would act as messengers.

The majority of reports that he had received from the commanders was that much like Andalos, these areas had organisation mostly being villages or fishing towns. The host in the north had made it to the coastline already and had spread out to cover the entire coastline. Theon considered how much land was realistically manageable. As of right now all he had done was ravage the land, he needed to put in place some kind of fortification. The question was what and where.

It definitely wasn't where he was currently, as he refused to even consider Andalos as a place he would make the capital of House Stark's territory of in Essos. He sent letters, one north to tell the northern host to march south, one went south to tell the southern host to set up a base camp. He left a few garrisons of men to ensure their hold on the land and marched south to meet up with the southern commander; Jarack Locke.

It took a week of marching before he met up with the Commander Locke. The land was flat grassland. Perfect for farming as it was fertile from what Theon could see. It could also make a good killing field, no shelter from incoming arrows. When he saw the camp that had been made, it was basic with thin, wooden walls and no towers of any like. He looked to the sea and saw that the land almost made a hook, but not fully reaching the land on the other side. Any ships would be forced to go through a chokepoint in where they could bombard from both sides. The land was perfect. He would build a fortress. The current camp that was in place currently would have to be improved upon. But Theon had done what he had set out to do, take revenge on the Andals and conquer the land in the name of Stark.

He left a willing five thousand men under the loyal Lord Jares Hornwood to maintain the territory they took as well build the city that he wanted. He made promises to send supplies, gold and money as soon as he could. Whenever he could.

He left the Winterlands with twenty thousand men, in search of conquest and revenge. He returned with bountiful riches, twelve thousand men and an unsatisfied hunger. Was that a fair trade, Theon mused. He didn't think long on the answer as there wasn't a way for him to mollify himself if it wasn't fair.

Theon thought on how the north would be doing, was there another war to fight, would his loving wife have borne him an heir, perhaps his uncle had done something worth a damn, maybe dying. It said something about his character and state of mind that of the three questions e had just asked; the first one was the only one that made him in anyway joyful. The other two merely brought a familiar sensation that he had known before and by now welcomed as if it were a group of old childhood friends; bitter frustration and harsh resentment.

He felt frustrated with his uncle as they were both the last of their House and needed to support each other both politically and to Theon's eternal shame; emotionally. He didn't know how to talk to the older Stark as before Theon took his crown he never had a conversation with Rickard outside military meetings or reports. He never had a reason or want to do so. If he wanted to talk to somebody it would be his brother or if it was mindless chatter; his whores. His pride wouldn't allow it either, to come to his uncle asking for some kind of aid or support of any kind. He was a king, never had he seen his brother or father rely upon anyone for anything, they were the masters of all they desired.

But Theon wasn't his father nor his brother, both of whom were raised from birth knowing that they would inherit the throne. He never received the same education in ruling as his brother, so as to ensure he would never lust for his brother's position. His uncle had the knowledge and experience in ruling that came from decades of acting as the right hand of two kings, such expertise that Theon never had and so would be invaluable for the young king.

He resented his wife, for being herself and being married to him. She had done him no great evil nor had she failed as a wife in any way. He resented her as it was her kin that slew his father, her father foolish idea that had burned down Winterfell and all those with it, maybe if she realised her defeat early and surrendered the Dreadfort as soon his men been had seen by the Bolton scouts then the Andals would have had fewer men and less time to secure their defences and perhaps Bran would have been able to survive and win the battle without him intervening, and seeing his brother's warm corpse. Maybes, perhaps, and ifs. That was not fair to her and he realised it. But really did he care, life wasn't fair to him, why should he be fair to anyone?

Theon sighed greatly, and gently massaged his temples; he wondered if his father and brother had felt the same as he did. Buried under the responsibilities and duties of a king. He wondered what advice they would have for him. His thoughts turned to his mother as they were wont to do when they began having such thoughts. He smiled wistfully as he reminisced about the love she held for him, the songs she sung to him, the laughter they shared.

In each of the stories, she told him as a child, of the heroes that always saved the princess and slew the villain. He remembered how he would cheer when she would name the heroes Theon, how he would squirm in fear of villains whenever they would hurt anybody. What happened to that child? What happened to the boy who wanted to be as heroic as Bran the Breaker? What happened to the boy who would give golden coins to old crippled soldiers and widows? Did he die within the burning of Winterfell? If he was not dead at that point, then how could he live through the death of his brother, or the raping of his own wife, or the innumerable atrocities committed by his word. How would his sweet mother fair should she have witnessed such a thing. Would she have wept in horror and forsaken him as any blood of hers? Would she have smiled at him and whisper words of forgiveness in his ear?

So many questions, none of them he was willing to answer.

He held no plan for what he would do with himself or the kingdom he was now king of. He wanted to lift it to greatness like any other monarch would want to. A bitter voice whispered to him, 'Like your brother, like your father'. He wasn't as surprised by the fact he was hearing voices as he would, if such a phenomenon as he would have a year ago. Instead, he merely took the voice's words as advice , perhaps not the most conventional counsel but only a fool would ignore any help offered to him in a position such as his.

He thought on the words for a while and tried to bring them into practice; his brother and his father had tried to lift bring the kingdom into greatness, just as he had hoped to do so, and they both had died as a result of it; his father burned alive and his brother cut down by the Andals. Was the voice trying to ward him from poisonous ambition? The same ambition that had killed his kin, surely it couldn't be telling him not to try. Not to attempt and improve his current life as it was? Surely, that was mere human nature, for one to strive to improve himself and all that he possessed. Theon mused on those words, this level of critical thinking was not his forte but he still endeavoured to consider what was the best route for him and his kingdom to take.

Perhaps the advice was not aimed to stop him from improving himself but instead to take his own routes, to take his own path of glory of trying to fulfil his father's goals. His father's way was one of peace and plenty, where words were used to wage war, not steel or men. Bran tried to do that, marrying the Houses of Stark and Bolton, as well as the other Stark marriages to half a hundred other houses that their father had first planned.

Raised up in an education mostly diplomacy and being a good ruler, Bran was taught that war was to be a final approach when all other methods of peace had been exhausted. And this reluctance towards war led to his death. As Bran was an untried commander and fighter, he learned the histories of war and it's tactics but never sought to implement it. There had never been an opportunity to do so, as their father had kept the land in a state of peace.

Their men were also equally untested most being farmers, as well as any who was able of heeding the call to arms. It was no surprise when they lost so many when they fought the Andals despite having more men. The Andals they had fought were battle-hardened men who had bled all across Westeros if Argos had been a better commander than he had been a warrior then they could have won that battle.

Perhaps the voice was telling him that diplomacy the path for him take, it made a sort of sense as his father had exhausted that route until it was no longer possible and his brother had tried to do the same and so died as a result of it. So warfare was his path? Iron and blood, would he be remembered as the Stark who coated his reign in the stuff to point that even his sons would grow sick and tired of it. Would his nights be nothing but nightmares of the horrors that he would be forced to face as a result of it? He remembered the relative peace of his childhood, his father and uncle doing their greatest to create truces and ceasefires and eventually a treaty between House Stark whatever was left of the Barrow kings. He remembered the long arguments and constant ravens that were sent back and forth between Winterfell and the Barrowhall. Surely, no matter how stressful such a peace would be it would be more beneficial than a war. Any uneasy peace would be better than even the shortest of wars.

He sighed greatly once more and instead of massaging his temple he reached for some sweet wine that they had taken in the conquest. He took his fill and a little bit more. Its taste was sweet as he told it was, but the burn it left in his throat as he swallowed was nothing compared to good Northern ale. All the same, it was by no means terrible and he could envision it being a faithful companion on lonely nights. He thought to his uncle and wondered if the man had finished his campaign.

Knowing his uncle, he more than likely had and was already ruling the Winterlands far more efficiently than he ever could. Gods, these thoughts just came rolling on in, didn't they? He wondered just how differently things would have been had his uncle been the one to be crowned. If it had been, they wouldn't fight be fighting wars in foreign lands, not the state that the kingdom was in, they would instead be trying to rebuild and recover.

 **AN**

 **Thanks for reading, remember to favourite and review. Any reviews will be replied to as soon as possible.**


	6. Selene I

**Selene I**

It was not every day that she was not sure how she felt about her position. Some days she loved being Queen of the Winter Kingdom, despite not having an official coronation or crown. The power at her fingertips and the peak of her tongue were staggering. Her uncle-in-law had taken as many men as House Bolton could rally without depleting the land completely of men so as to leave the land 'defenceless'. This would be important; the part of being 'defenceless'. She thought that he had some ulterior motive as to taking so men, but after a while dropped the issue as the end of the day it did not have that great an effect on her plans and their results.

In the two years, a nearly three-year-long campaign of her husband, she took tours of her new kingdom. Early on she had taken a trip to see the smoked carcass that was once called Winterfell, she toured it with Maester Ervin of the Dreadfort. She questioned him on how it would cost to repair the old fort as well it how long it would take to do so. His answer was not the one she wanted; "Your grace, the time and money required to return Winterfell back to its former glory is..." At this point the old man fumbled for words that would deliver the impossibility of rebuilding of rebuilding Winterfell without angering her. A difficult task indeed.

"Impossible, your grace. To restore that ruin to its old glory is an unmanageable feat and it is more efficient to simply tear it down and rebuild from new. The resources needed to build a fortress such as Winterfell - which almost half a decade ago was the greatest fortress north of the Neck, may I remind you- are not cheap, neither will be the cost of labour for a castle this size requires an small army's worth of builders, carpenters, stonemasons, engineers and the like. I am sorry to say your grace, but Winterfell is dead."

She was not sure how she felt about that. One side; without Winterfell the next possible place for Starks to rule from was the Dreadfort – which need its own repairs after the siege- she held mixed feeling on that matter as the Dreadfort was her home and it filled her with a strange sort of pride for it to be the home of Kings once more, the Dreadfort was it felt like desecrating her ancestors to let another take it from her. There were some feelings of joy on the realisation that Winterfell was destroyed and for a chance for a comeback was as impossible. But she knew that if her husband or any loyal to him realised that she had such feeling then she would never be able to influence through anything other fucking. And her sex was still sore from the last time. She put the thoughts away and rode south.

She rode to Cerwyn next, questioning the castellan of the house of how many men he had left and how willing he was to spare. Her question was polite and honest bestowing a Wolf Queen in every manner. Castellan Rodner Cerwyn was the uncle of the current Lord Endrew Cerwyn. Apparently, Lord Endrew's father had been one of the many who had died in the bloody siege of the Dreadfort. Because of this, the Castellan who had been left as the defender of the castle had a hatred of Boltons and anything to do with the House.

Unfortunately, for Rodner and everyone involved, he denied her not in the way befitting royalty. The man forced her to leave in disgrace, promising violence if she did not. If being a Stark did not feel make people obliged to serve her, then being a Bolton certainly would. As all know, the Our Blades are Sharp.

She returned to Cerwyn nearly a two and a half months a later, instead of pleasantries and courtesies befitting a royal, Selene had come with a host comprising of nearly five thousand men. Not a very large one, especially when compared to the forces that had left with her husband and her uncle-in-law but this army was not raised with the intention of sustained warfare against another force. Not originally anyway.

No, her army was of recruited from greenboys, greybeards and anybody else that did not go with Rickard Stark. This host was for scaring House Cerwyn into a surrender of their castle and whatsoever she wished it for... The main army was comprised of five hundred archers, twelve hundred cavalrymen and the rest being lightly armoured infantry. While this host was not for warfare, it would not be right for her to have a poorly trained host.

She gutted the defensive detail of the Dreadfort left by Rickard Stark, taking the majority of a five hundred strong garrison and leaving them with only a tenth of their number. These were Glover swords that were loyal to the Starks and had no allegiance to the Boltons, but she was a Stark through marriage after all. The men were originally unsure of whether or not to obey her but after a threat of flaying and a reminder that it was her husband who was king, not Rickard Stark. They obeyed her, if reluctantly.

With the four hundred trained soldiers, she appointed them into minor positions of command amongst her smallfolk majority of her army. She also commanded quiet Gerrad the Helsinger, whom was appointed to the position of master-of-arms of the Dreadfort after the death of the previous Master-at-arms, an old swordsman of Brant who had bled alongside her grandfather against the Marsh Kings in wars of yore, at the Battle of the Weeping Water, to train as many soldiers as humanely possible as she raised her force in the shadow of the Dreadfort. Despite his silence, he was still one of the best swords of the Dreadfort. Even as they marched she still commanded the better trained and experienced to train the lesser.

Gerrad was the third son of the old Lord Darron Ramsgate whose own seat was a southern castle by the banks of the Broken Branch of the same name. He was a kinslayer who carved his own brother's heart of his chest. The brother in mention being; Jonos Ramsgate who was the second son, for taking the maidenhead of the woman Gerrad loved. The daughter of the master-of-arms, Selene had heard of her, was no great beauty as Selene was credited to be but she could certainly turn heads.

And apparently turn brother against one another. From what she had heard of the delicious tragedy, Jonos had not raped the girl instead courting her secretly and having the girl giving him her maidenhead despite knowing that she was also courting his younger brother.

After killing his brother, in the realization of his crime Gerrad had stolen a horse and rode the poor beast to death by galloping non-stop to the Dreadfort hoping for her brother, Rogar to give him sanctuary from his pursuing kinsmen. He expected, no, hoped on sanctuary from Rogar as the two had formed a strong friendship that had been nurtured with many letters between the two while they were separated, while Rogar had been fostered at Ramsgate. She had teased her brother for those letters, questioning whether he and Gerrad had some sordid love affair. He turned red, she was not sure if it was with embarrassment or rage. He threatened to make a long wooden training sword become her first lover, in retaliation she burned the letters that he had kept from Gerrad and told him that if he tried anything to her, she would maim him as he slept. Not to death of course- she was no kinslayer-, just to the point where he would never forget.

When Gerrad made it to the Dreadfort on a dying steed only hours ahead of his pursuers and days behind the raven that informed her father and brother of his crime. He begged for safety, throwing himself at the gates. Her father, called for the archers to ready themselves to slay him as he knelt but it was only by her brother's pleading of mercy for his friend that saved the third son. When he entered, he was reluctantly offered bread and salt by their father. Gerrad accepted of course.

When the Ramsgates had made it to the Dreadfort, they had brought enough men that Maester Ervin called an army, Selene remembered her father snorting at the description. Though she did not blame him; it was not even a fifth of enough men to properly threaten the Dreadfort let alone besiege it. Lord Darron and his remaining sons; Braddock and Hurdon. They requested that House Bolton peacefully surrendered the kinslayer Gerrad Ramsgate. There was some focusing on the 'peaceful' segment of the statement. There were reasons for this.

In peacetime, the Dreadfort had a standard garrison of six hundred men, which was more than enough to hold the fortress against any attacker for any certain number amount of time especially when the fortress was fully stocked with food and water. As it was at the time, against the few hundred men that House Ramsgate had brought, it would take at most a few rounds of archer fire to wipe them out completely and if there were any survivors her father or the master-at-arms could sally forth and cut the survivors down. Lord Darron would want to avoid such an event at all costs and so asked to parley with the Lord of the Castle, his King, her father; King Royce IV 'the Redarm' Bolton within the relative safety of the Dreadfort.

Lord Darron and a small number of guards were allowed to enter the royal fortress to discuss the fate of Gerrrad with her father, his master; Ervin, castellan master-of-arms; Qarl and his heir; Rogar. She was not a part of them but she could make an educated guess on how the discussions were going from the snippets told to her by the maids she would gossip insipidly with. From the snippets, she had heard, the final verdict was that Gerrad would not be executed neither would he be sent to the Wall but he would undoubtedly be forced to serve a great punishment. And great, it truly was. As for Rogar who stuck out his neck to save his friend, her father was reluctantly forced to concede a betrothal for him with House Ramsgate as well as a sizeable dowry for the Ramsgates.

She did was not to allowed to enter the great hall when the eventual the sentencing would be doled out, but she had intimidated the guards and maids that were there at time to do so. The woman that drove Gerrad to slay his kin, was brought from Ramsgate alongside the Ramsgate host for reasons that were beyond Selene. The woman, whose name was never known to Selene, was brought to the Dreadfort. It was not sure whether she came willingly or not. Gerrad's punishment was to kill her in the same way he had killed his brother, was this just for all parties involved? No, no it was not. The woman in question, strongly disagreed with the verdict if one was to make a rough judgement from her screams of denial and mercy but who was truly say? It's not like they actually asked for her opinion on the matter, seeing as she was a minor noble, if her father questioned this then he would also be executed or given some sort of compensation depending on the mood of Lord Darron.

Gerrad was handed a beautiful knife, perfectly balanced with most of its weight was at the hilt. He was described as shaking, babbling for some kind of mercy, something not as painful as this. Death was one of the words that escaped his lips, but like all the rest it was all ignored. The man tried to postpone, delay anything that would lengthen the time that his beloved could stay alive. Her father was as merciful as his reputation gave him credit for; which is to say absolutely not. He promised that if the woman's heart was not given as gift to Lord Darron as penance then both Gerrad and his lover would be flayed with their skins being used as a substitute. With that encouragement, he walked to his screaming mistress, hesitating with every step and cursing himself with every breath.

Nobody had the iron stomach necessary, to depict the gruesome event that followed. But after interrogating enough people she had the information she wanted; the man was no Bolton and while the tools where in perfect form and condition, he was the opposite. His cutting was sloppy and uncoordinated although that was not helped by the fact the woman he was carving his way through did not stop screaming and struggling the entire way through.

By the end of it, the woman was dead and what used to be two mediocre breasts was a gaping hole bordered with broken pieces of ribcage. Blood and viscera had spread all over the courtroom during the operation and as a result there were very few places not covered some sort of bodily fluid. But Gerrad had done what he had been commanded to do, present the heart of his late lover to his father, weeping profusely as he held the bleeding heart.

But that was not the end of the torment after Lord Darron had accepted his son's apology and then disinherited him for his acts of kinslaying. Her father once more displayed just how forgiving he was and had Gerrad seized with specific instructions to hold the man's nose. The knife that Gerrad had used was cleaned and handed to her father, who declared that Gerrad was to be punished for treason, for which he displayed when he hesitated to kill his old mistress. Her father once more displayed mercy and instead of execution was to have his tongue removed, immediately. After heating the knife in a blazing brazier for a good while, the King walked forward and reached for Gerrad's open mouth as he had been forced to breathe through the mouth, he reached and grabbed his tongue with his left hand and with a single smooth movement he cut his tongue off with his right hand.

Such skill, such grace she hoped one day that she could perform as well as her father. More than likely only after years of practice and experience with the blade. Oh well, it was bound to happen eventually.

Gerrad screamed. The heat from the blade cauterizing the wound immediately, Gerrad's tongue fell out of his mouth and landed with a 'squelch' on the bloodied floor. Her father looked at his handiwork. At this point Gerrad's screams had reached his father who had just left through the main gates. Her father was handed the bloody knife to another and walked off to do take a break from his kingly duties so as to enjoy the fruits of his hard work. Gerrad still had not finished screaming, and by know was beginning to grow hoarse. Her brother had ordered the guards to carry him to the infirmary, as they left Gerrad was incomprehensible, babbling words that would go could not be deciphered by even the most patient listeners. At this point, her father was far out the room and most likely enjoying some wenches that he 'found' on the way.

When they entered the infirmary, with Maester Ervin waiting for them tolerantly to set the man down so as he could go on with his work. Rodgar ordered all the guards out the room until it was just himself, Gerrad and Ervin. It was never repeated what was said in that room, and no one would ever know. But the aftermath was evident for all to see. Gerrad became a permeant appearance in the Dreadfort, her brother saying that he was to his sworn sword. And the story did have some validity to it as Gerrad took to sword practice with an intensity that was more common in wild beasts than it was in men. Eventually becoming one of the best swords in the Dreadfort second only to Rodgar himself and eventually beating him consecutively after a few months of stalemates.

She had seen him fight three men at a time and to say it was one-sided was unfair to Gerrad, the man was undeniably skilled. There were two main attributes to his skill; his speed and his hand dexterity. In the battle that she had seen he had wielding a two-handed longsword which spun and whirled with such speed that it was more comparable to an arrow than a sword. In minutes of the battle starting he had already disarmed the man closest to him, knocked out the second fighter and was halfway through humiliating the last one. Eventually disarming him and forcing him to yield. His speed was something that surprised most men as it allowed him to quickly win most of battle through shock tactics that involved him outmanoeuvring his foes by making feints to draw their attention before darting to their unprotected flanks and cutting them down ruthlessly.

A deadly style indeed, although it did have set backs as it depended on Gerrad being faster than his foe, and was more effective against singular opponents than it was against it was a multitude which was more likely to happen in battle and his speed meant little when fighting an enemy on horseback. Gerrad did his utmost best to increase his agility so as strengthen his own effectiveness; the way he did this was by reducing his weight. Switching from plate amour to chainmail and then to brigandine and going even lighter by using leather armour which was practically useless against anything sharper than a butter knife. He once tried fighting only in a thick doublet, something that her brother and the master-at-arms both disagreed greatly with, ordering him to use brigandine armour. Gerrad was disgruntled with the order but owed too much to her brother to ever rebel against him or his orders. For years he fought, practiced and trained until there was no-one alive that could challenge him and win. No one within the Dreadfort, as for a comparison against some of the best swords in the Red Kingdom there had not been the opportunity until a later date.

When Rodgar had gone north with a handful of men to visit House Blest, which was one of the houses that was directly in the border with the Shadow Kingdom. The House was loyal only to itself, a result of trading loyalties between Bolton and Umber. But they had called for aid from the Dreadfort against some brigands coming over from Shadowlands, Rodgar raised a small force and they went north to deal with the bandits. Gerrad was Rodgar's sworn sword and so was involved. Their progress was slow, firstly because they were rallying as many men on the way as possible and secondly as the Starks say; 'Winter was Coming', what that meant in reality was that they were nearly halfway through a short autumn and snowstorms had been bombarding the countryside as they travelled. It took them nearly thrice as long as usually to make it to even pass the ice cold Last River, fogs that made it impossible to seem five feet ahead of oneself made them dismount their horses and walk through the forest for days on end before they saw the Ravensnest of the Blackwoods.

It must have seemed like some sort of heaven straight out of a fever dream, seeing the black castle towering over them offering shelter and something warm. They were invited in; Rodgar was given the salt and bread inciting the Guests' Right to him and his men. She knew not the exact happening of what happened in the castle only that her brother spent two nights recuperating and resupplying, before being forced to leave in a hurry. With Blackwood angrily unable to do little as he could not very well kill his crown prince could he? Well not unless he wanted his entire house to be annihilated; root and stem by that Prince's father.

From what she had pieced together from various reports was that Rodgar and Gerrad visited the town together, with a relatively small retinue of Bolton guardsmen and which they met a strange man from the Essos, Valyria to be exact. He offered to sell the men good spices and products that they had never seen before. The merchant had a funny accent when he spoke the tongue of the Firstmen, but he was understandable enough. Her brother acted the decorum befitting a man of his position; he toured the man's wares and looked around for anything that he wished to purchase. Gerrad on the other hand, while he did act with decorum for a small while before he saw something. A bastard sword made of black steel, it had two cross guards. One in the conventional placing and the other in the middle of the hilt, signifying that it was meant to be wielded two-handed. Her brother when noticing the interest that Gerrad had in the blade asked for its price. Selene was never told the actual price of the blade, but knew that it was ridiculously high. The price was more fit for a small castle than it was for a sword.

Far higher than any blade had any right to be, when her brother had burst into laughter, and after the chuckles he had asked for the real price. To which the merchant merely repeated the price he had offered, explaining that the sword was so expensive because it was of 'Valyrian steel' and so could cut through anything with ease. The northern men just stared at the merchant, as if they could be tricked into buying 'magic swords', the merchant took the sword out of its sheathe and held it one hand, which was impossible for the short potbellied man to do so. Then with almost practised ease he swung the blade downwards, the blade screaming beautifully as came arching downwards, carving the oaken table that the blade used to be on into two and even the ground below with no resistance. After the example, the northern men were no longer disbelieving and far more willing to part with such a sword if it could perform as such. Gerrad was said to have a glint in his eye that could be charitably described as unnerving.

Her brother asked to be handed the blade, which he was, and as he was examining it he asked if it had a name. The merchant said that in Valyria it was called 'Dōna Vāedar', for the noise it made as it would cut through the air but he added in Firstmen it would be 'Sweetsong'. He asked the merchant if they could negotiate on the price, this led into heated debate between the prince and the merchant. All the while Gerrad –who at this point was held Sweetsong, knew at that moment he would have this sword, his sons would have this sword and so would their sons and their sons ad infinitum.

And so Gerrad walked up to the merchant and with one deliberate action he removed the man's head from the rest of his body. The cut was diagonal, although perfectly straight, the blade connected at the Adam's apple travelling just behind the ears and exiting at the back of the crown. All of that in a smallest fraction of time it took a hummingbird's heart to beat. The song that the sword sung was definitely sweet to the ears, and blade was so sharp that the cut was perfectly flat, and so on that day it was proven that not only Sweetsong was worth every coin that it was priced at but also Gerrad was more than likely insane to some extent.

She did not know how things progressed from that point but in no particular order; more people died, the town began burning, egos were bruised, some people were flayed, Gerrad and Rodgar fled from the town and even more people died.

After a hasty flight from Ravensnest, her brother's host made swift journey to Blest stronghold –it's actual name was unknown to Selene- was unmolested by neither men nor the weather allowing them to make it to their destination quickly. Once there, they met Master Robett Blest. Who explained the issue promptly, once realising the nasty mood that her brother had which was a stark contrast to Gerrad who had been described as 'glowing' with happiness. Choosing to settle with the safety of having the prince leave his lands and hall as soon as possible rather than the honour of hosting royalty despite the chances of said royalty punishing him for some perceived slight.

On the next day Master Blest, rallied a few hundred men of his own and combined with the men of Rodgar they went forth to hunt down these brigands, within two weeks all the brigands were either dead in battle or in flayed with their skins worn as trophies by the commanders' of the Bolton-Blest force. She had heard that her brother had flayed them himself, which she took with more than a grain of salt as it was well-known in the Dreadfort how much her brother hated the act of flaying, calling 'disgusting' it and 'barbaric'. For him to have done so, gave her an idea just how angry he was.

She also heard just how devastating an exceptional sword such as Sweetsong which could cut through anything, in the hands of an exceptional swordsman such as Gerrad who with a regular sword could defeat nearly anybody. Gerrad was akin to a one-man army, as with a small amount of force Sweetsong could cut through plate and mail armour, and in combination with Gerrad's natural speed, agility and skill; he was a god of war. An example of this is one of the tales told to her by one of the veterans who came back from the expedition; five bandits came to challenge him, two lost their heads in his first strike, three disemboweled in the second strike, Gerrad unfazed by blood that had coated him, stepped over their bodies and moved on to the next challengers.

When they returned, her father called Gerrad; the Helsinger, for the songs that his sword sung. It was never certain whether it was mocking or praising. She thought it was mocking at first but when her father entertained the idea of making Gerrad the sworn sword of himself rather his son, she knew that her father had some respect for the man. Her father – at the insistence of Rodgar - had also had a set of custom made mail armour with a black surcoat made for Gerrad, on its chest was a white flayed man wielding two swords one a field of red outlined with dark blue. The helm was a great helm with Her father also gave him the title of the Helsinger, as a result of his sword. All of this made her wonder; why did Rodgar command him to remain with her in the Dreadfort instead of marching off to war. Perhaps he would still be breathing air if he had done so. But he was dead, and so any queries she had would be unanswered.

She gave the command to the army to a tested commander, Qarl the Queer. Qarl was a giant of a man, with shaggy long hair that when braided reached to the small of his back. He usually wore loose dirtied breeches, leather boots, a bronze torc around his neck and skin of bear as a cloak. His preferred weapon was a long iron battle axe, with an oaken shaft that was slightly taller than himself. At either end of the oaken shaft there were two iron spear tips.

The man was a Skagosi who had lost a war against House Magnar of Kingshouse for the Stone Throne of Skagos. He had lost but was so great a general and so skilled a warrior that when he was eventually captured, the Magnars allowed him to leave Skagos with honour befitting a warrior despite his loss. Although they stripped him of his manhood and forbid him from ever using the name given to him by his mother, and instead one given to him by his enemies. Honor was honor, she supposed. They did such a thing so as to ensure that their enemies could never accuse them of 'weakness'.

Her father found him years ago hunting in the Blackwood by the Grey Cliffs in the first weeks of Winter. Apparently, the man had been killing the native hunters and so one of the nearby minor houses rallied a posse and went forth to kill him. They were led by Lord Jaxter Blackwood, who was one of the most powerful nobles in the entirety of the Red Kingdom.

House Blackwood had the only port north of the Weeping Water and while this may seem like a point of pride, it was consistently raided by the nearby Skagosi when they were not fighting amongst themselves. But Blackwood was one of the most powerful vassals sworn to the Boltons, their port mostly used for fishing so as to supply their populace but was also able of constructing and fixing small war galleys able to protect their fishing vessels. They had been requesting financial aid since her grandfather taking the Red Throne so as to invest in building new shipyards so as to have the ability to field the naval power able of taking on the Skagosi warship to warship, sailor to sailor. House Bolton had made promises and agreements in the past to do things in the future but never actually doing anything in the present. This led to some resentment between Bolton and Blackwoods.

They also had a history with magic and sorcery as they shared blood with the Children who had lived deep in the Blackwood. The legend being that the Blackwoods were one of the few Firstmen clans that had made peace with the Children before the Pact and were rewarded with powerful magic. Lord Jaxter Blackwood himself even bore magic upon his own person with a cloak of raven's feathers, iron armour, sword and shield inscribed with runes, the cloak gave him speed, shield was to protect him from all threats mundane and magic, the sword would cut through anything in it's path, and the armour was to protect him from anything the shield did not.

She had never seen this magic nor did any one dare ever call the Blackwoods on this perhaps out of fear. Perchance they had achieved their position as high lords through this sorcery but none truly knew. All she knew was that her father feared the Blackwoods rising against him, and did all he could to either bind them to him or weaken them.

Years ago, she counted this to be a failure as his, she did not believe in the magic of anything. If it did exist, then why did the Children not use it throw back the Firstmen when they came? But when she saw magic, she never questioned it once again. And hoped never to see it's like ever in her life.

And so when her father called his banners for a war against the Starks, Blackwood convinced many of their neighbours and allies to feign ignorance. Such an act would have been considered reason and had her father still been alive after the war with the Starks, he would have turned his army north and crushed the Blackwoods painfully. Selene had not seen their banners; a black red-eyed raven with its wings outstretched, in one set of claws it grasped a series of scrolls in the other was a human skull, on a field of red bordered with grey, when she called the banners for Rickard. Well, that was to be her second target after the Cerwyns.

She remembered eavesdropping on her father telling her elder brothers about how great a folly that was when the Blackwoods chose to hunt Qarl the Queer. The hunters did not know if they were hunting man or beast, or how strong it would be. All they knew that it was a man killer, to say it was not enough could be called an understatement.

A group of thirty, half being local hunters who were armed with short bows and long hunting knives. Ten men in the group were guardsmen who came from the castle; the remaining five were Lord Blackwood and his sons. Their formation was a cautious one, with the archers in the rear to provide support and the swordsmen in the front to face any opponent head on.

They stalked through the forest until they had seen the tracks of their 'prey'. They followed the tracks until it led them to a dead end. It was there that Qarl sprung his trap and catching most of men unawares. With a single swing, he beheaded three men, and then still mid-swing he rammed his axe's spear point into the chest of another. Within the first five seconds of combat, Qarl had killed four men.

Now lacking the element of surprise, Qarl charged the group using both hands to swing the axe until it little more than a deadly blur. He went for slaughter the remaining archers first but that was not without risks as he was close enough for them to fire at him point blank. And so they did, it did not stop their deaths but it did weaken him. He slew the remaining archers easily, with quick swipes and brutal lunges but Qarl was wounded with at least two arrows in his torso. But still the Skagosi giant lived. By the time the first Blackwood swordsman reached the Skagosi everyone knew that this battle could go either way, either with Qarl dead or the Blackwoods dead.

But alas, the battle was not to be for Lord Blackwood was no fool and realized that without their archer support and by going in groups of two they would quickly fall to the already bloodied axe that had slain half of his group. He ordered a quick retreat, so as to save the lives of him men and return with more favourable odds. Qarl did not follow them, instead retreating himself. When Blackwood returned to the Ravensnest, he raised a force nearing nearly a thousand men, more than half were equipped with a bow and quiver of arrows, a good fifth were upon horseback. With Lord Blackwood and all the menfolk that his House held leading them, he commenced the hunt.

With such a great host, he split them up into far smaller hunting parties and sent them to search the entirety of his lands. The search stretched beyond the Last River and the Sheepstead Hills even going so far as to push into the Shadowlands. Lasting months it eventually annoyed enough highlords that eventually her father had to get involved, and when he did was with a quickly assembled force of twenty-five hundred men, all bearing the flayed man upon their chest. He marched northwards his destination to wherever Lord Blackwood was. It took two weeks but he stumbled across his vassal on the peak of the Sheepstead Hills, half crazed and with his soldiers either dead or considering mutiny.

He spoke to the noble, and when he realized that all of that all of this was all over one man. Her father was reported to have laughed so hard that he nearly fell of his horse as the man that had Lord Blackwood had spent months looking for as well as several fortunes of gold had been found by her father on his way to meet the man. The man was found near dead and wounded, he had been taken to the healers in the infirmary to be seen to. Her father had heard the stories of the man's great size and wanted to see the giant himself while he was unconscious, and so recognized that he was the object of Lord Jaxter's hunt.

Immediately, Lord Blackwood demanded that House Bolton hand over the captive as politely as an extremely angry man on top of a small mountain for no good reason could. Her father, declined as he wont to do to his vassals. Lord Blackwood persisted, describing the horrors that the Qarl could commit despite his weakness, at the moment they were speaking. His incredible strength, his intense savagery and impossible ferocity. How he carved through more a dozen men with skill alone. How he trespassed on the private land of one of his highlords, as well as half a dozen other accusations which were half-truths or either baseless lies.

To most sane men, the description of Qarl, no matter how inaccurate it was, would lead them to the rational decision of having him executed for murder at least. Her father had never claimed to be sane not her knowledge anyways, and had rarely shown any evidence towards rational thought in the entirety of the time she had known him. And the result should have unsurprising, but somehow it still managed to shock a few. Her father wanted a performance of the man so had asked that at soon as the man was awoke he was to engage in an impromptu fifty-man free-for-all. The other forty-nine men were bandits, criminals and people her father did not like at the time. So of course, Lord Jaxter Blackwood and his heir - whom was also named Jaxter - were given a non-negotiable invitation into the competition as well. No matter how willing or unwilling they were.

It took two weeks to prepare and by the time the event there was enough publicity for the event that a good-sized number of smallfolk had arrived, by a 'good-sized' Selene was truly describing a non-violent mob numbering in four, maybe five digits. Their true quantity was unknown to her as nobody bothered to register them, a shame truly as perhaps they could have charged a small fee and make a moderate fortune. The location was to be held in the town that had in the shadow of the Dreadfort.

She had destroyed that town when she had caught wind of her father's defeat and the oncoming Stark army, razing the buildings, conscripting the men to the castle guard and the any who couldn't fight- women, children, etc, - were given shelter in any empty space that the Dreadfort had; be it spare rooms, halls, courtyards, wine cellars, even dungeons were used. Although nobody wanted to even enter the rooms due to the dead bodies and leftover skins left over, nevertheless they were offered.

Looking back on it, it was strategic misstep on her part to allow the townsfolk to shelter in the Dreadfort. The men? Yes, they needed as many men manning those walls as possible. Everyone else? No, they were not in any way useful only acting as several hundred mouths that drained their food supplies faster than if she had lit a fire in her larders. She had toyed with the idea of arming some dozen able-bodied women and placing them as guards, who had not heard of House Mormont after all? But these poor serfs weren't the tried and tested fighters of Bearshall, and most would not last against them for any longer than it would take to swing heavy mace. She should have left them out for Starks, but had she not taken the women the men would not have fought for her as she had left their families out for the wolves. So, that idea was scrapped.

But enough daydreaming within a daydreaming, and to focus on how Qarl entered her life as she besieged Cerwyn because one man insulted her. That sounded terribly vain and petty; hopefully, she would find a more suitable excuse once the Starks returned.

Returning to her memories of her first tourney, not that she knew of that at the time. She would always remember just how alien it was. There was a wooden contraption that created, the shape of was a ginormous table for the fabled giants of the land-beyond-the-Wall but instead an of a regular giants' table - if there ever was such a thing - the wooden pillars of pine- maybe blackwood? - which served as the legs did not stop at the horizontal board instead stretched for at least another ten feet at which there was another board. Imagine a cuboid cage, without most of the bars. Making it a rather shit cage in all honesty, but bear with this description. The cage had four central bars, which were really the supports of this construct.

Why was not the lower board/floor on the ground? Ask the architect/carpenters of this monstrosity. To the sides,, were wooden stairs whose purpose was obvious. In the cage were several rows of seats, getting gradually higher as one went further to the rear, the useless cage was covered with an ornately decorated with the sigils of several houses, victorious battles, and other nonsense that was deemed appropriate by her the weavers of the tapestry. There were three of this structure the central one was the largest by half and instead of having rows which gradually rose up, this instead had a large throne in the middle and the rest of the board was empty.

To the sides of these… things for lack of a better word were simple wooden fences that marked a large area of the grassy field. This was where the battle would take place; a field that was mundane in all aspects was soon to become a killing field.

The fifty that her father had originally wanted, this had ballooned into a battle royal into numbers of nearer to a thousand than they were fifty, reasons behind this were evident; her father had promised lordships, gold and other rewards to the victors of the melee. This had no doubt attracted many a second, third and even fourth sons, bastards of course and any warrior of renown no matter how little. It even attracted highlords seeking vainglory and gold. Nothing was required of a competitor other than to merely be there on the day of the battle.

Of the entire competition, there were favourites to win as there were in any sporting event. Qarl, of course, was an obvious choice with his great stature, strength and experience in combat, but there were others that had chances of winning; Gerrad with his Sweetsong, Lord Jaxter Blackwood was an experienced warrior with his Runesteel, the Lord Regan 'Black' Percy who had singlehandedly broken the lines of the Valemen in the last war with sheer ferocity winning the battle as well as killing their Bronze King in the process with a swing of his war hammer, the famed Lord Eddard 'Glorious' Godfrey who had slain twenty berserker Umber giants after sneaking into the Last Hearth and raping the Umber princess. And those were ones she could remember. There was no doubt more who were equally as skilled. All of them wanting to claim the prestige and rewards from this battle.

When the day of the battle came around she sat in the highest tourney stand, on her father's left while her eldest Rodgar sat on his right, all his most powerful vassals and greatest swords also with him. To their sides where the other tourney stands in where the other nobility sat, and in front of them was where the battles was to begin, the small folk had crowded around the area of half an acre. At the beginning of the day, there were little more than six hundred swords, all of varying backgrounds and the men who were about to kill each other had no thing uniting all of them but one; they all knew blood would be spilt.

Her father began it when he signalled for the battle to begin. And immediately these men went forth to kill. Swords, arrows, hammers, cudgel even fists, anything that could be used to kill was used and used vigorously. She payed special attention to Gerrad as he carved through his opposition, none stood against him for longer than a dozen seconds. He faced off against large man in a chainmail hauberk who swung a morning star flail as if it were weightless, the spiked ball smashed against the flat of Sweetsong, the force pushing Gerrad back a step. Smelling weakness, the man raised his right arm for an overhead strike. Should it connect it would more than likely kill Gerrad, probably snapping his neck or caving in his skull, depending on where the morning star landed.

It landed nowhere.

Sweetsong screamed a haunting melody as it was rammed hilt deep into the man's throat, through his shield and through his arm before settling in the crimson warmth of the recently deceased warrior. Gerrad, his emotions unknown to her as his face was hidden beneath his iron helm, used two hands to pull out his blade, but before he could do so he was attacked on his flanks by two assailants. They wore brown brigandine tunics and were wielding bloodied spears, they worked as a unit. One tried to spear Gerrad through the armpit – one of the few weak points in plate armour – while his compatriot was two or so feet away from him. A good tactic, one would attack upfront while the other close enough to support, but still far away enough that they could surprise an unsuspecting enemy from the rear.

Catching a glimpse of his ambush a second before it happened, Gerrad was forced to abandon Sweetsong which was still buried in his previous opponent, in favour of not getting skewered, now forced to face a spearman unarmed and unknowing of his ally a not a few steps away. For the first few seconds, they merely circled each other, gauging weaknesses and strengths. Then the spearman lunged forward trying to catch Gerrad off guard. Had he ever fought Gerrad before he would know just how impossible his task was, using his left arm's iron forearm guard to block the lunge as he moved forward grabbing Sweetsongs hilt in one hand and instead of the neck, he plants it deeply in the chest of the spearman with such force that it lifts him clean off the ground. This time he does not waste time and so removes Sweetsong swiftly from the dead man's body, only to parry away the second spearman who charged in screaming, quite obviously grief stricken at the death of his friend. The spear man comes in with a flurry of quick stabs that forces Gerrad on the defensive using Sweetsong to block or parry what he cannot dodge, but the battle is over when the spearman stalls for two seconds and Gerrad takes the opportunity to bury Sweetsong between the man's eyes.

This would be an interesting day.

 **AN**

 **Sorry for the late update, other issues came up that demanded my attention. Tried to make it this extra-long through some exposition and backstory to compensate but lost the main plot as a result. Next chapter we continue with Selene and how she rules the Winterlands in the stead of the Starks. I would greatly enjoy reading and replying to your ideas and queries so please review. Thank you**

 **Here is a small description of the houses mentioned in this chapter;**

 **House Blackwood**

 **Seat of Power; the Ravensnest.**

 **Territory; the Blackwood and the Grey Cliffs**

 **Sigil; a black red-eyed raven with its wings outstretched, in one set of claws it grasped a series of scrolls in the other was a human skull, on a field of red bordered with grey.**

 **Words; Eat their hearts**

 **Overlord; House Bolton**

 **Vassals; House Neville, House Lennox, House Moray**

 **House Godfrey**

 **Seat of Power; the Weirhold**

 **Territory; the Sheepstead Hills**

 **Sigil; A white weirwood with red leaves on a field of black**

 **Words; God's Might**

 **Overlord; House Bolton**

 **Vassals; House Dudley, House Kens, House Tor, House Hawkthorne**

 **House Percy**

 **Seat of Power; Percival**

 **Territory; a few acres of land in the Sheepstead Hills, east of the White Knife.**

 **Sigil; a purple diagonal cross on white, at the centre is a right arm in plate armour gripping a sword.**

 **Words; We bear the sword.**

 **Overlord; House Godfrey**

 **Vassals; None**

 **House Blest**

 **Seat of Power; Durham**

 **Territory; A few acres of land by the Bay of Seals, northeast of the Blackwood.**

 **Sigil; Yellow diamonds crossing through field of sea blue**

 **Words; Blessed is our House**

 **Overlord; House Neville**

 **Vassals; House Locke**

 **House Ramsgate**

 **Seat of Power; Ramsgate**

 **Territory; three leagues of all the land that borders the Broken Branch and its tributaries.**

 **Sigil; a black iron gate adorned with a ram's head on a field of blue**

 **Words; We Endure**

 **Overlord; House Hornwood**

 **Vassals; None**


End file.
